


King's Folk, The

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Characters - Friendship, Drama, Post-War of the Ring, Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Writing - Good use of humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2003-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:42:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 24,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3761945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.</p><p>A fusion of movie and book canon with a great deal of my own fanon thrown in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Rangers Return

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

  
Barliman Butterbur was in his downstairs room  
struggling with the Inn accounts when the door slammed  
open.

It was Beomann, his oldest boy, round eyed and  
panting "Dad! the Rover just walked in." his father  
dropped his pen and shot down the corridor to the  
common room.

The Rover was sitting in the Rangers' usual corner  
by the fireplace with the sparse handful of other  
customers clustered around him, all talking at once.  
The Innkeeper pushed his way through them to find the  
Ranger looking a little bemused by this unaccustomedly  
warm welcome. The first words out of Butterbur's mouth  
sounded plaintive even to him. "Where did you go?"

"There was bad trouble away up north and in the  
east." the Rover answered. "We had to go deal with it."

"We had some pretty bad trouble right here,"  
Butterbur told him. "fighting even. Some people were  
actually killed!"

"So I've gathered. I'm sorry."

The Innkeeper pulled out a chair and sat down.  
Shaky with relief, and a little ashamed of himself for  
being so. "The Road's not safe these days, we've got a  
nest of brigands somewhere out there in the Wild -"

"Not any more." the Rover interupted quietly, grey  
eyes suddenly very cold.

Butterbur stared at him, swallowed hard. "There's  
other things too," he said a little huskily. "Wolves,  
and ghosts or something like it gibbering around the  
hedge at night."

"Wights." the Ranger said grimly. "That's bad. I'd  
not have expected them to grow so bold. Don't worry,  
we'll see to it."

Butterbur looked at him, really looked, and saw the  
pallor beneath the grime and lines of strain and  
control around mouth and eyes. "Are you all right?"

The question clearly startled the Rover and he  
hesitated a little before answering. "Well enough."

"You don't look it." the Innkeeper said bluntly.  
"You'd best stay here tonight. A hot meal and a good  
sleep in a proper bed is what you need."

The steely grey gaze softened. "Thank you, I will."

Butterbur stood up, hesitated. "Rover, what's your  
right name."

The other Man smiled, something Butterbur couldn't  
remember ever seeing a Ranger do before, said gently.  
"I am Gilvagor son of Armegil."

He should have known it'd be something outlandish.  
The Rover read the thought in his nonplussed face and  
laughed aloud. Another thing Butterbur couldn't  
recall ever seeing a Ranger do. "Make it Gil. That  
should come easier to your tongue."  
***

Butterbur was yanked from his slumbers by a  
pandemonium of voices floating up the main stair. He  
rolled out of bed, pulled a dressing gown on over his  
nighshirt and padded downstairs, his good wife at his  
heels, to confront a passle of distraught townfolk  
clustered around a hysterical, tearstained Woman  
wrapped in homespun shawls.

"Here now, what's all this?" he demanded and the  
Woman, The Widow Thistlewood from Alderedge Farm,  
threw herself into Mrs. Butterbur's arms sobbing.

They're gone! They took them, they took them!"

"Took who?" his Missis asked, guiding the other  
Woman to the settee before the hall fire.

"My babies!" the Widow wailed, "Tom and Daisy!  
Skeletons, skeletons in white robes! They crawled  
through the windows and dragged them out of their  
beds!"

"When?" Gil's voice clove through the confusion like  
a sword. Mrs. Thistlewood, struck silent, sat mouth  
open staring at him. "When?"

"Just now." she answered, staring as if she  
couldn't look away. "I ran after them but lost them in  
the fog."

"I heard her wailing and calling and brought her  
here." Will Rushlight, the west gatekeeper, put in.

"We may still be in time if we move fast." the  
Ranger said, half to himself. His eyes swept the  
assembled Men, bright with a strange silvery light.  
"I will need help."  
***

Barliman Butterbur never really understood exactly  
how he came to find himself walking through a chilly,  
eldritch fog towards the dreaded Barrow Downs with his  
clothes pulled on anyhow, a torch in one hand and a  
wood axe in the other, surrounded by a dozen or so  
neighbors similiarly armed. The Rover strode at the  
head of their ragged column, grim and purposeful, the  
fog rolling aside before him.  
  
The Breelanders found themselves following him,  
against all reason, off the road right into the  
sinister downs. It was bitter cold, unaturally so, and  
shapes moved in the mist on either side. Steel  
whispered as Gil drew his sword, the long bright blade  
caught the starlight, glistening, and the shapes and  
the fog that cloaked them seemed to draw away in fear.

They came at last to a long barrow hunched beneath  
the steep face of a down, its dark door gaping open with  
a cold, dead air flowing from it.

The Rover turned to face them. His eyes glistened  
like his sword and power went out from him like heat  
from a fire. "Fear is the Wights' chief weapon, so do  
not fear! They fear the light and brave Men, so stand  
firm and you will prevail. I count on you to keep them  
from my back - for those two children's sake." He  
turned, and ducking his head disappeared through  
the black door.

The moment he vanished the fog, and the things in  
it, drew closer encouraged. Panicked Butterbur thrust  
his torch into a mowing skull-like face and it shrank  
away. Geoff Heathertoes swung his scythe exactly as if  
he were harvesting grain and a boney arm clattered to  
the ground, wriggling in a tattered white sleeve. The  
fog drew back.

Panting hard, the Men exchanged looks, spirits  
rising. It was true then, they *could* do this - if  
they kept their nerve and held their ground.


	2. Beomann

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.

Beomann Butterbur was never able to adequately  
explain to his father, to Gil, or even to himself, the  
impulse that sent him into the barrow on the Ranger's  
heels. How much help was a green boy clutching a  
kitchen cleaver likely to be? and yet for all that it  
stuck in his craw to let the Rover face whatever was  
there under the earth alone.

Gil carried no torch and neither did Beomann, it  
should have been black as pitch inside the barrow, but  
it wasn't. A cold, unholy light burned in the burial  
chamber and crept, sickly pale, up the passage.

And there were voices. Thin, cold, moaning voices  
drearily chanting in a language Beomann couldn't  
understand but which seemed to drain the warmth from  
his body and hope from his soul.

And then Gil cried out a word that stopped the  
chanters' tongues and shattered the spell like like a  
dropped plate. Beomann gave a great gasp of relief and  
crept closer to look in the burial chamber door.

The first thing he saw, with horror, was little Tom  
and Daisy laid out on a slab of stone as if for burial  
decked in cold, dead gold with a naked sword lying  
across their throats.

The second was the three Wights, their white bones  
clothed in rags of skin and tattered silk. And lastly,  
facing them, the Ranger. Tall and terrible in worn  
green leather, eyes and sword gleaming with a pure  
silver light. He spoke again, clear ringing words that  
fired Beomann's heart though he understood them no  
better than the Wights' song.

The undead things shrank and gnashed their  
fleshless jaws then, snarling, drew long greeny-white  
swords and sprang at Gil. His blade flashed clean  
silver flame as it cleaved the formost Wight from  
skull to breast bone. It collapsed in a heap of  
splintered bone and a cold wind rushed, wailing, past  
Beomann and up the passage, fading into the distance.

He unscrewed his eyes and uncovered his ears in  
time to see Gil slice the head from the shoulders of a  
second Wight and had the sense to get quickly out of  
the way of whatever it was that fled wailing into the  
night. More Wights were coming out of gaping openings  
to other chambers or passages, converging on the  
Rover. Beomann launched himself at them with an  
inarticulate cry.

Old dry bone splintered under his cleaver as he  
hacked at limbs and rib cages. It caught on something  
and was ripped out of his hand. Ducking under the  
swing of a Barrow Wight's sword Beomann grabbed for a  
blade lying on the floor, rolled onto his back and  
skewered the Wight as it bent down to stab him. He  
scrambled to his feet, swinging the sword inexpertly  
with both hands as he charged back into the fray.

Suddenly the sickly light went out. Beomann  
stumbled over a tangle of bone and fabric, fell and  
lay still, panting, afraid to move in the blackness.

The Rover's voice, breathless but calm, came out of  
the dark. "Who's there?"

"B-Beomann Butterbur."

A rustling and a warm strong hand clasped his arm.  
"Are you hurt?"

"I don't think so."

"Well, Beomann, I don't know how you came to be  
here but thank you for your help. Now let's get the  
little ones out of here."  
***

It turned out Beomann was hurt, a long gash along  
his jaw, another running from shoulder to elbow on his  
right arm, and a bloody hole through his left thigh.  
But he didn't feel them until after they'd arrived safe  
back at the Pony and his mother'd descended upon  
him with a sharp cry of dismay.

The Widow Thistlewood hung, wringing her hands and  
dripping tears, over the cold still bodies of her  
children. "Are they dead?" she moaned, "are they  
dead?"

"No," Gil answered her, "but their spirits are  
lost, wandering in Shadow, and must be called home."

Little Tom and Daisy, still in their barrow jewels  
and silken burial robes, had been laid out on a table  
in the common room with what seemed like half of Bree  
jostling and craning their necks for a look.

The Rover leaned over them and spoke commandingly in  
the same strange language he'd used in the barrow.  
"Lasto beth nîn, tolo dan na ngalad!" Silence fell  
abruptly over the crowded room, but the children did  
not stir.

Gil reached to take each by the hand. "In the name  
of Elendil the King and of Hundeth the Chief I summon  
thee. By the oath that binds thy kin to mine I bid  
thee come back to the Light!"

And Tom gave a great gasp and opened his eyes. And  
his sister uttered a long wail and held her arms out  
to her mother. Gil stepped quickly back as the Widow  
caught her children up in a tight embrace and the  
crowd of Bree folk surged forward to congratulate and  
exclaim. Came over to where Beomann sat on a stool  
before the fire with his mother tending his wounds.

"You must watch for infection." the Ranger warned  
her. "Wightish weapons are notoriously unclean."

"I can imagine." Mrs. Butterbur sniffed. "Nasty  
undead things!" squinted up at him. "Are you hurt?"

"Not a scratch, though I might have been killed if  
not for your son." and he gave Beomann a smile that  
made him feel warm clear through and a good foot  
taller. "That was brave, my friend. Not very  
intelligent perhaps, but brave."

"I'm that proud of him." Mrs. Butterbur agreed and  
threw her son a sharp look. "But if he ever does the  
like again I'll kill him myself!"

"Yes, Mum. Sorry, Mum." Beomann said meekly. But in  
his heart he wasn't sorry at all, and in the back of  
his mind an idea was born to lie hidden, even from  
himself, for a long while.

His mother was studying the Ranger again and  
clearly not liking what she was seeing. "You look  
like death," she told him. "and you say you're not  
hurt?"

"Not by Wights." Gil answered, which was a mistake.  
Ishbel Butterbur had raised four sons and three  
daughters, she knew an evasion when she heard it.

"By something else then?" the flash of guilt in his  
face was all the answer she needed. "Get up, Beomann."  
she ordered. Then to the Ranger. "You, sit down." he  
opened his mouth to protest. "I said sit down, young  
man!"

The vivid laughter that briefly lit his face made  
him look young indeed. Meekly he took Beomann's place  
on the stool. Under jerkin and shirt was a bandage and  
it had blood on it. The wound beneath, a nasty  
diagonal gash across the ribs, had been neatly  
stitched closed but oozed blood here and there where  
it had broken open again.

"Taking on who knows how many of those horrid  
Wights with a great gash like this in you," Mrs.  
Butterbur scolded as she cleaned, salved and  
rebandaged the wound. "have you no sense at all?"

"Not much." Gil admitted, smiling. Then more  
seriously; "What else could I do, Mrs. Butterbur, with  
two children gone?"

That silenced her, more or less. She grumbled to  
herself as she finished her bandaging, then ordered  
Gil upstairs to bed and to stay there until she said  
he could get up!

That made him laugh again. "You sound just like my  
old Nurse. Very well, Mrs. Butterbur, I know how to  
follow orders. Good night."


	3. The People of the Old Kings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.

Two more Rangers arrived early the next morning  
asking for Gil. Butterbur directed them to his room  
but Mrs. Butterbur blocked the stairs and gave them a  
good tongue lashing for not looking after their  
companion better.

They listened in patient silence, with perhaps a  
trace of amusement, until she got to the Barrow  
Wights. Then a flash of alarm crossed Treebole's face  
(1) and he picked her right off the steps, set her  
gently to one side and shot up the stairs with  
Silverlock (2) right behind him and Mrs. Butterbur hot  
on their heels as soon as she got her breath back.

Gil was either awake or wakened the moment they  
entered and smiled at them. "What's all the noise?"

Treebole crossed the room in three long strides,  
took his wrist in one large hand, studied his face,  
then shook his head. "Didn't I say you were using  
yourself to hard?"

"Mrs. Butterbur has already given me one good  
scolding," Gil pleaded, eyes twinkling, "I don't need  
another."

"Might as well save my breath for all the good it'll  
do." Treebole agreed ruefully.

"Tackling Wights in your state," Silverlock shook  
his head, "what were you thinking?"

"Of the two children they'd carried off." Gil  
answered quietly.

The Rangers exchanged a glance and a sigh. "There  
was no help for it then." Treebole said resignedly,  
gently laying down his arm. "Very well then, Rover,  
we'll spare you more reproaches."

"Thank you. Do one thing more for me, see the  
Barrow is cleansed. I couldn't do it last night and  
Mrs. Butterbur has forbidden me to get up without her  
permission, which I fear will not be given just yet."  
and he gave the hostess, hovering in the doorway, a  
smile that made her blush like a girl.  
***

Mr. Butterbur was waiting for them at the foot of  
the stair. "Begging your pardon, but I wanted to ask;  
what should we do about this?"

'This' was the golden jewelry that had adorned the  
two children, piled neatly on the Rangers' corner  
table with Beomann's sword lying beside it.

"Keep it if you like," Silverlock answered, fingers  
brushing lightly over rings and chains, "There's no  
taint on it that I can feel." then he picked up the  
sword and stiffened, eyes flashing outrage. "Mandos  
consign them to your deepest dungeons!" he whispered  
with frightening venom. "That they would *dare* -"  
looked at Treebole. "It was Aradan's tomb."

The other Ranger set his mouth in an even grimmer  
line and nodded upward. "Does *he* know that?"

"I don't see how he couldn't."

"Aradan?" Butterbur echoed blankly. "You mean King  
Aradan who was killed in the Witch Wars?"

Both Rangers turned to look at him in surprise.  
"That's right," Silverlock said, "You know the name?"

The Innkeeper glared. "We remember the Kings, we  
fought for them in those wars."

"Indeed you did," the Ranger agreed somberly, "and  
bravely too." he looked down at the sword in his hand.  
"Aradan and his sons fell before the gates of their  
citadel and were buried together with the knights  
who'd stood by them at the last." raised dark blue  
eyes to Butterbur's. "Your kin as well as ours lie in  
that barrow." suddenly he extended the sword, hilt  
first to the Innkeeper. "Give this to your son. The  
brave Man who bore it would be glad for him to have  
it."

Butterbur took the sword automatically, eyes never  
leaving Silverlock's. "The King's People," he breathed  
wonderingly, "that's who you Rangers really are. You  
didn't die or go to the Elves, you've been right here  
all along."

"Where we belong." said Silverlock.  
***

Several of the Men who'd followed the Rover out to  
the Downs the night before, including Butterbur  
himself, decided to go back with Treebole and  
Silverlock.

Not that they could be of much help in finding the  
barrow, what with the fog and the dark and all. Luckily  
the Rangers didn't need assistance but followed a trail  
the Breelanders couldn't even see, unerringly to the  
long Barrow beneath the steep face of a down. The door  
gaped blackly as ever by daylight and a slight chill  
still hung about the place.

Treebole knelt down to cut a big square in the turf  
and roll back the dry winter grass. Then he and  
Silverlock went into the barrow to bring out the bones  
and pile them on the bare earth.

It was a nasty job but Butterbur remembered what  
Silverlock had said about some of those bones  
belonging to his kin, gritted his teeth and pitched  
in. And after some hesitation the other Breelanders  
did too.

When they finished the bones, including some ten or  
fifteen skulls, were in a big heap and the Breelanders  
drew back a little, uncertainly, to see what the  
Rangers would do next. First they covered the bones  
with shreded silk and tufts of dry grass, then  
Silverlock took a crystal from his coat and used it to  
focus the sun's rays on the tinder. After a long  
minute it began to smoke then caught little pale  
flames running all over the pile.

Butterbur cleared his throat. "Why -?"

"Sunfire cleanses." Treebole explained quietly,  
glanced at his troubled face and added: "If we just  
buried the bones the Wights could reclaim them. This  
is the only way to keep that from happening."

"Oh." There was something funny about the fire, the  
flames were pale but burned very bright and hot -  
almost like the sun.

Then Silverlock began to sing, a strange, slow song  
in words Butterbur couldn't understand but which  
filled his head with visions of high walled cities and  
sceptered kings, a golden land patterned with  
prosperous farms and towns and a darkness held  
at bay by shining swords.

The song ended. Butterbur sniffed and rubbed away  
the tears rolling down his cheeks with his sleeve. His  
neighbors' faces were wet too, but none of them could  
say why.

Silverlock and Treebole went back into the barrow  
and came out carrying armloads of treasure; gold and  
silver jewelry glittering with gems, swords and  
daggers, and shields ensigned with stars and trees and  
ships and other devices. This they spread on the grass  
and invited the Bree Men to take whatever they fancied  
and leave the rest lie in the clean sunlight, free to  
all comers.

"But - it's wrong to rob the dead." Will Rushlight  
ventured.

"The Wights have already done that," Treebole  
answered, "this is how we break their hold and cleanse  
the barrow of their presence."

"The King and his knights passed long ago beyond  
the circles of this world," Silverlock added kindly,  
"they care nothing for treasure now."

He bent and took from the heap a circlet of tiny  
leaves in bright silver with a green beryl stone set  
above the brow. Looked at it rather sadly for a  
moment, before saying; "I chose this."

Treebole silently selected a big red-golden broach  
in the shape of a coiled dragon. Thus encouraged the  
Breelanders began to pick through the glittering pile.

Butterbur chose a chain of gold and pearl for his  
Missis, another of adamant and beryl and topaz for  
Peggy, a pair of wide silver bracelets set with  
sapphires for May and an opal ring for Lusey. After a  
moment's hesitation he also took a long dagger, its  
blade damasked in a flame pattern of red and gold, for  
young Gerry, since Beomann already had his sword.

For himself he took one of the shields, bright  
gold, ensigned with sprig of butterbur in green with  
purple flowers. Why a knight of old would have been  
carrying it he couldn't imagine, but it would look  
well over the bar.  
**********************************************

1\. So called for his height, even greater than that of  
most Rangers. His real name is Arallas son of Dornlas,  
(the same Arallas who is Captain of the Gate of Swords  
in 'Return') at one hundred and nineteen years he is  
accounted old even by the Dunendain.

2\. So called for his silver blond hair. His real name  
is Elfaron son of Ithilion. His ancestors were nobles  
holding land on the River Lune. He inherits his silver  
hair from an ancestress who was a Nandorin Elf of the  
Evendim Hills.

The Nandor, btw, are Elves who left the Great  
Journey to settle on the banks of the Anduin and in  
Eriador. Though accounted 'Dark Elves' they are  
considered a cut above the Avari who refused the  
Journey altogether.


	4. Journey to Annuminas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.

It turned out the Rover and his companions had had  
another reason for coming to Bree, beyond a roof over  
their heads and a chance to hear the news, they needed  
to buy food.

"You have families," Farmer Appledore said blankly,  
"women and children?" the three Rangers looked at him  
and he blushed. "Sorry, of course you must, it's just  
I never realized -"

"You weren't meant too." Gil told him. Continued to  
the tableful of Bree's leading citizens: "Normally we  
buy our supplies through the Dwarves, but as you all  
know last summer and fall were anything but normal."

Fervent nods of agreement all round.

"With none of the usual fairs or markets open we  
were forced to fall back on our stores, unfortunately  
almost all of those were lost when the enemy burned  
our holdings -"

"Enemy?" Butterbur interupted. "Surely you don't  
mean those brigands from down South?"

"No," Treebole agreed grimly, "he means the Hill  
Folk of the North and the Mountain Orcs."

"And Stone Trolls, and Hill Trolls. Wights and  
Sergollim and other things left by the Witch King  
and the Great Enemy." added Silverlock.

The Rover silenced his companions with a look. "As  
I said, we've had troubles of our own to deal with."

Butterbur didn't like the sound of that. He was  
begining to suspect Bree's 'bad trouble' had actually  
been a very small matter indeed, and much worse might  
have happened had the Rangers not put themselves  
between the Breeland and the greater threat.

"What about your women and children?" his Missis  
said suddenly, pausing mid-pour, ale pot in hand. "If  
your homes were destroyed where are they? Surely not  
camping out in the Wild!"

Gil seemed to hesitate a moment before answering.  
"No, most have taken refuge in Annuminas."

"The old capital?" Ben Mugwort gaped, "but it's a  
ruin now. The enchanted forest grew over it, didn't  
it?"

The Ranger shook his head. "No, the Elves took care  
of the city for us. The buildings are sound enough to  
shelter our people but we need to buy food if we are  
to make it through the winter."

Of course the Breelanders immediately agreed to  
sell, it was certainly better than letting their  
surpluses of grain and vegetables moulder in the  
storehouses but -

"Are you sure you can afford to pay?" Mugwort  
blurted, adding hastily, "I mean we'd be glad to give  
you a discount in you need it."

Gil smiled, "Thank you but that won't be necessary."

Mrs. Butterbur frowned at him. "I know you men,  
this is no time for silly pride. If your folk are in  
need -"

Astonishingly all three Rangers grinned. "I promise  
you, Mrs. Butterbur, payment will not be a problem."  
Gil's eyes twinkled. "You see, when our ancestors  
abandoned Annuminas they left the Royal Treasury  
behind."

The Breelanders gaped. "You don't mean vaults of  
gold and silver?" Butterbur managed.

"In fact I do." Gil shrugged. "We were surprised  
too."

"Though we shouldn't have been come to think of  
it," that was Silverlock, "it's not as if gold or  
silver would have been any use to them in the Wild."

"Comes in handy now though." said Treebole.  
***

The train of twelve large, heavily loaded wagons  
jolted its way over the broken and grass grown stones  
of the old North Road.

The Wild spread wide and empty around them, rolling  
hills, stands of forest, jagged outcroppings of rock,  
and here and there crumbling ruins that were once  
towns or castles or who knew what. The sight of them  
made Beomann's eyes sting.

The Wild hadn't always been waste, once upon a time  
this had all been settled land - a grand and glorious  
kingdom - and his ancestors had been a part of it. A  
humble part but they'd obeyed the King's Law and  
fought in his wars until the day the King and his  
people had disappeared, leaving Bree to struggle on  
as best it could alone.

Only they'd never really been alone. Adrift now in  
this vast emptiness Beomann saw his homeland for  
what it was, a tiny, fragile bubble of life and order that  
never could have survived without the constant, secret  
protection of the Rangers.

He found it hard to believe the Breelanders had  
never guessed who those strange, green clad  
wanderers and hunters really were. The old stories  
said the People of the Kings were tall and dark haired  
and possessed strange magical powers and lived for  
centuries.

And of course Rangers were tall and dark and  
magical too. And everybody knew they lived much longer  
than ordinary folk did. Why Strider, who was King now  
according to old Gandalf, had been coming into the  
Pony since Beomann's grandfather's time - nigh on  
sixty years if it was a day.

"How old are you, Gil?" Beomann asked suddenly.

The Rover, riding beside the wagon on one of the  
big, shaggy horses Rangers used, shot him an amused  
look. "About your father's age I'd say, just short of  
sixty."

Beomann looked at him hard. It wasn't easy to gage  
Gil's age. When he got that grim Ranger look he seemed  
older than the hills but if he chanced to smile or laugh  
he looked no older than Beomann himself. He was  
smiling now.

"That's not very old as my people measure it. By  
our standards I'm still little more than a boy."

"How old do you get?" Hobbits lived a bit longer  
than Men but not even they considered sixty young.

The smile vanished. "If our lives aren't shortened  
by violence or hardship or grief, perhaps a hundred  
and fifty years or a little more. My kin may, with  
good fortune, live sixty or so years beyond that. But  
we've had all to little good fortune these last  
centuries."

And there was that look again. Gil's reaction to  
questions was unpredictable. Often they amused him  
but sometimes he'd go all sad and grim, like now, as if  
reminded of things he'd rather forget.

But then he'd see Beomann's face fall and make an  
effort to cheer them both up. "Silverlock's just a  
youngster, like me, but Treebole there is a hundred  
and nineteen, old even by our measure."

Beomann stared slack jawed at the tall Ranger's  
long back as he rode next to the lead wagon. Treebole  
didn't look young but he certainly didn't look *that*  
old! Of course all three Rangers had been coming into  
the Pony as long as Beomann could remember and none of  
them had aged a day in all that time.

"I can't understand why we never figured out who  
you Rangers really were."

"You weren't meant to." Gil replied.

"You said that before," Dick Heathertoes said from  
the driver's side of the wagon seat. "What do you mean  
by it?"

"That you saw and thought what we wanted you to see  
and think."

Both Breelanders stared at him. "You mean you used  
magic on us?" Dick asked nervously.

Gil frowned. "I've never really understood what you  
country people mean by the word 'magic' you seem to  
use it for so many things."

"Well," Beomann groped for an example, "what you  
did in the barrow was magic."

"That was Power." the Ranger agreed. "But fooling  
the eye is a small thing in comparison, would you call  
that 'magic' too?"

"Yes!" said both young Men in unison. Gil shook his  
head bemused. "What would you call it?" Beomann wanted  
to know.

Gil shrugged. "A trick, a play. It's a simple thing,  
we learn it as children. Why I might even be able to  
teach it to you."

"No thanks!" they chorused in lively alarm. And Gil  
laughed.

"Are you doing it now?" Beomann asked, and the  
Ranger smiled again.

"No, it's no longer necessary."

Beomann looked at him hard, trying to see a change.  
Gil was still recognizably the Rover he'd known since  
he was a boy, yet he'd never really noticed the fine  
aristocratic features under the scrub of beard and  
dirty hair or the quicksilver brightness of the wide  
deep grey eyes. The old stories said the King's People  
were beautiful and Gil was, but somehow Beomann  
had never seen it before.

"I don't like the idea of being under a spell." Dick  
grumbled.

"Oh it's not a spell." the Rover assured him  
quickly. "I promise you those of us who can use such  
arts do not do so lightly, and certainly never on our  
own people without their leave."

Beomann suspected what Gil meant by a spell was not  
what Dick meant by it, but kept his mouth shut. Dick  
seemed reassured and Beomann wanted him to stay that  
way.

As for himself it wasn't the magic he minded but  
the deception. Their King hadn't abandoned Bree but  
he'd hidden himself from its people even as he'd set  
his own to guard them. It wasn't right.

Beomann felt a sudden, irrational surge of  
resentment. Bree Folk had belonged to the King too!  
Maybe they didn't have magic like the Men from Over  
the Sea but they'd kept his laws and fought for him  
too. It wasn't *right* he hadn't trusted them!

But how could he say that to Gil, or Silverlock or  
Treebole after all that they and the other Rangers had  
done for Bree down the long years? It was Strider, the  
King, he had to say it too if he ever got the chance -  
or had the nerve


	5. The City of Elendil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.

The high, darkly wooded Evendim Hills marched  
into the blue distance left of the road. Half the  
wagoneers, including Beomann, watched the forest  
like they expected a three headed Oliphant to charge  
from the verges at any minute. The other half  
resolutely refused to look at it at all.

The Enchanted Forest had an evil name in the  
Breeland and Gil's reassurances had been somewhat  
less than successful. According to him there was indeed  
a King and Queen of the Lake - but no need to worry  
about them as they were friendly to the Rangers.

Better still, the forest really was packed solid  
with spells and enchantments trapping all kinds of  
nasty things inside it, but not to worry; the road  
and the city had special protections placed on them.  
Needless to say the Breelanders didn't find this the  
least bit comforting.

Beomann's heart was in his mouth as the road turned  
directly towards the forest. They passed under the  
shadows of the first trees and found themselves faced  
with a tall gate, intricately wrought in black iron in  
the form of bare and tangled trees, between two grim  
towers of dark stone crowned with iron spikes.

Treebole blew a long mournful call on a horn. A  
moment's silence then the great gates swung smoothly  
open before them revealing a spotless white road  
running between tall, bare black trees. It wasn't  
until they were actually passing beneath them that  
Beomann realized the trees weren't real but, like the  
gate, wrought of iron.

"The Gate of Iron." said Gil suddenly. "Also known  
as the Gate of Winter."

There didn't seem to be much to say to that.  
Looking back Beomann saw the gate had closed silently  
behind the last wagon. There was no going back now.

Two miles or so on they came to a second gate  
between towers of reddish stone topped by brazen  
spikes. The Gate was bronze too, made to look like  
tangled trees just like the iron one but covered with  
bright copper leaves. And Beomann wasn't surprised to  
see the trees beyond this gate were also bronze with  
large leaves of beaten copper.

"And this is the Gate of Autumn." said Gil.

"Very pretty." Dick managed huskily.

"Thank you. They were made for Elendil long years  
ago by the greatest Elven craftsman yet living in  
Middle Earth."

Elendil, Beomann remembered, was the name of the  
First King. The one who'd escaped from Westerness  
before it was drowned. So these gates must be  
thousands of years old - and not a spot of rust or  
tarnish on them. "Are they magic?"

"I suppose you could call them so." the Ranger  
conceeded.

The first and second gates had been strange and  
beautiful but the third took the breath away. It was  
of gold, and so were the glittering parapets of the  
honey colored stone towers that flanked it. And the  
trees that formed the gate and lined the road beyond  
it were covered with leaves and fruits of jewels,  
sparkling green, gold, red, pink and orange in the  
sunlight.

"This is the Golden Gate of Summer." said Gil.

Beomann had to swallow twice before he could get  
the words out. "Are we there yet."

The Ranger laughed. "Not quite. Still two more  
gates to go."

Beomann exchanged a bemused look with Dick. It was  
hard to see how they'd top that last gate but the Bree  
Men braced themselves for further wonders.

Shining white towers with silver parapets flanked  
silver gates wrought in the shape of new budding trees  
covered with young leaves and blossoms. And the tall  
silver trees lining the road on the other side also  
glittered with pale green gems, the exact color of new  
leaves, and many colored jeweled flowers.

"Don't tell me, the Gate of Summer." Dick blurted  
and Gil laughed and nodded.

"And now you've run out of seasons," said Beomann,  
"so what's your last gate called?"

"The Gate of the Two Trees." both Breelanders  
looked at him blankly and he smiled. "I take it you  
don't know that tale?"

Dick shrugged. "Beomann here's the expert on the  
old stories."

The younger Man flushed a little but admitted. "I  
can't say I've ever heard that one."

"Long ago, before the Sun and the Moon were made,  
when Elves and Men still slept in the mind of Eru,"  
Gil began, just as Bree storytellers always started  
with 'Once upon a time when the King still ruled,'  
"the only light in Middle Earth came from the stars of  
Varda. But in the far West, in Aman the Undying, there  
grew two Trees and from them light fell as rain and  
dew.

"Telperion was the elder, the Tree of Silver, and  
its light was purer and stronger than that of the new  
moon. The Tree of Gold was known as Laurelin and a  
firery rain, hotter and brighter than sunlight, fell  
from its boughs. For long ages the Valar and the Maiar  
dwelt in the light of the Trees, and when the Elves  
awoke in Middle Earth they were called to Aman that  
they might share in the light as well.

"But Morgoth, the Great Enemy, hated all light that  
was not his own and he poisoned the Two Trees,  
thinking thereby to plunge the world into darkness  
unending. But before dying Telperion put forth one  
last silver flower; and Laurelin a final fruit of gold.

"And the Valar took them and placed them in vessels  
imperishable and set them in the heavens that they  
might give light to all Middle Earth. Thus the final  
flower of Telperion became the Moon, and the last  
fruit of Laurelin the Sun.

"And it is said that the Second Children, our race,  
the race of Men, awoke to the first dawn of the first  
day of the Sun. And so the Elves call us the Children  
of the Sun and the dawn will ever bring new hope to  
Men.

"But the High Elves remember and mourn for the  
Light of the Trees, which lives now only in the  
Silmarils - and they are lost."

Beomann shivered, suddenly catching a vertiginous  
glimpse of the vast, dark gulf of time underlying his  
small familiar world, like a fallen leaf floating on  
the surface of a deep well. "Silmarils?"

Gil smiled. "That's an even longer story, we'll  
save it for another time I think." pointed ahead.  
"There it stands, the Gate of the Trees."

A high, grassy green bank reared up before them and  
in its middle stood tall, shining gates of gold and  
silver intermingled, adorned with figures of the sun  
and moon. And the gateposts were two gigantic trees,  
one of silver and one of gold, more than a hundred  
feet high. And the leaves of the silver tree were dark  
green above and silver below and it was covered with  
glistening flowers of pearl. And the tree of gold had  
light green leaves, gilt edged, and firery clusters of  
topaz blossoms dripping from its boughs.

"Is that - is that what they looked like? Telperion  
and Laurelin." Beomann stammered.

"As close as craft can come to it." Gil answered.  
"Enerdhil made them, who saw the Two Trees in their  
glory before the coming of the Dark Lord."

The Breelander thought he'd never seen anything so  
wonderful and beautiful, until the gates opened and he  
had his first sight of Annuminas the Golden, City of  
Elendil.

The road became a broad avenue lined with fragrant  
evergreen trees, unlike any he'd seen before,  
descending into a shining city of white stone, its  
many domes and the pinacles of its soaring towers  
overlaid with gold that glowed in the sunlight filling  
the air with a warm radiance.

The Breelanders' wagons rattled past tall houses  
with balconies of fretted stone and wide windows set  
with colored glass like jewels. Pillared arcades  
shading rows of empty shops, and grand public  
buildings adorned with statues of Kings and Queens,  
armored knights and fair ladies. There were green  
parks and gardens full of unfamiliar but very  
beautiful flowers. And everywhere the glitter of water  
in pools and channels and hundreds of splashing  
fountains.

And the people matched the city. More of them than  
the Breelanders had imagined, tall and dark haired  
with light, piercing eyes in proud, stern faces. Many  
of the Men were dressed in the familiar Ranger  
leathers but others wore long tunics and surcoats in  
dark, rich colors under swirling cloaks fastened at  
throat or shoulder by glittering pins. The Women were  
nearly as tall as the Men and every bit as stern and  
grim. But they were beautiful too, like queens and  
princesses of old with their long hair hanging down  
their backs and flowing, jewel colored gowns under fur  
lined mantles.

And, unbelievably, there were children. Small,  
bright eyed and noisy, running wild in packs. Chasing  
each other through the columns of the arcades; barely  
dodging, or failing to dodge, their elders; laughing  
and calling to each other in the strange musical  
language Gil had used for his spells.

Beomann could imagine what his mother would have  
had say to his brothers and sisters if they'd behaved  
so but the adult Rangers didn't seem to mind at all.  
They just got out of the way, or failed to, and  
exchanged smiles over the children's heads. (1)

Finally the avenue came to an end in a great plaza.  
Golden fountains cascaded down terraces of colored  
marbles under the benign gaze of numerous statues and  
above it all rose the turreted and golden domed palace  
glittering with jewel-toned window casements, its  
great tower soaring high into the blue sky. Clearly  
they couldn't take the wagons up there!

They turned left instead, skirting the terraces,  
until they came to lacy gates of silver and steel  
between doorposts carved in the forms of tall knights  
armed and helmed. These stood open and they rolled  
right into a large stableyard, distinctly grander than  
the Pony's but still comfortingly familiar to the eye  
and nose.

Rangers dressed in grey and white came to take the  
horses. "I see your mission was successful, Captain."  
one said to Gil.

"Thanks to our friends in Bree." he answered with a  
smile for the wagoners, huddled uncomfortably together  
unsure of what to do next. "Where is my Grandmother?"

"In the Hall tending to business." the Man answered  
and shook his head. "There seems no end to it."

Gil nodded, grimly. "I never thought victory could  
be so troublesome." he agreed then turned to his  
companions. "Arallas, find quarters and refreshments  
for our friends. Masters Heathertoes, Master Butterbur  
come with me if you will."

Treebole herded the rest of the Breelanders off in  
one direction while Geoff and Dick and Beomann  
followed Gil and Silverlock in another. They passed  
under an archway and through a pair of tall ivory  
doors carved with trees and stars into a broad hallway  
with colored marbles set in intricate golden  
arabesques on floor and high vaulted ceiling, the  
walls hung with paintings and lined with carved  
pillars and statues.

It made Beomann feel very small and grubby and  
badly out of place. He looked enviously at Gil.  
Somehow, dispite being every bit as dirty as the  
Breelanders and the worn green leathers he wore the  
Ranger fit right in, his fine features echoing the  
sculpted faces of the statues and the regal bearing of  
a king come home.

A second pair of doors, of gold inlaid with trees  
and stars in silver and white stones, opened onto a  
vast round hall. The high domed ceiling was dark blue  
and patterned with stars that glittered with their own  
light just like the real ones. A glimmering silver  
tree grew out of the dais in the middle of the room,  
its leaves chiming softly against each other as they  
moved. A Woman sat in a silver chair beneath its  
boughs surrounded by Rangers, all talking in quiet,  
measured voices.

They made way for Gil and he led the three Bree Men  
to the foot of the dais. The Woman rose to greet them.  
"Master Heathertoes, Master Richard, Master Butterbur,  
welcome to Annuminas."

Beomann felt his jaw drop, and he didn't have to  
look at the Heathertoe brothers to know their  
expressions would be equally sandbagged.

"N-Nightcrow?" Geoff quavered.

"Ellemir," she corrected, deep grey eyes like Gil's  
glinting amusement, "Lady of the Dunedain."

She looked a lot like Gil, but then she would,  
being his grandmother. Then Beomann remembered  
how old Gil really was and gulped. Nightcrow - Ellemir -  
must be nearly as old as Treebole! (2) But she looked  
younger than Beomann's own mother. The long black hair  
held back by a silver circlet hadn't a thread of grey  
in it and her elegant, high boned face showed a few  
lines but no wrinkles.

"We are grateful for your help, Master Heathertoes.  
What foodstuffs in what amounts have you brought and  
what was the agreed price?"

The prosaic business talk struck Beomann as being  
badly out of place in this setting, but nobody else  
seemed to think so. The Rangers listened with their  
usual grave attention as Ellemir and Gil and Geoff  
talked about grain and vegetables and the going rates  
for cartage and delivery.

Beomann's own mind wandered, he looked instead at  
the people around him. A very beautiful woman all in  
dark grey with a long veil over her hair stood on the  
steps of the dais next to a sleander, tired looking  
girl also in grey.

A bearded Man in shades of green with a golden  
chain around his neck sat on a stool on the step below  
them, one leg thick with bandages and a short silver  
topped staff leaning against his good knee. Gil too,  
had mounted the dais to stand on the step just below  
his grandmother.

Some of the people gathered at the foot of the dais  
were dressed in Ranger leathers, others in dark grey a  
few in brighter colors. And they weren't all Men, (and  
Women) Beomann saw a trio of Dwarves, two red bearded  
and one with a black beard braided with gold. And a  
tall, slim, silver haired person who could only be an Elf.

Something about those delicate features struck  
Beomann as familiar. Jarred he looked at Silverlock  
standing next to him, then back at the Elf. There was  
a definite resemblance. Some said the King's People  
were part Elf, apparently they were right.

Then Geoff and Dick were bowing, rather awkwardly,  
and Beomann realized their audience was over. As  
Silverlock herded them back towards the door he heard  
Gil begin to talk in the musical Ranger language,  
sounding both grim and sad.

For all their magical city these people were  
clearly in trouble and Beomann wondered if there was  
anything else Bree might do help. A shipment of food  
seemed a small repayment for the Rangers' thousand  
unthanked years defending the Breeland.  
***********************************************

1\. Annuminas is a tremendously exciting place for the  
young Dunedain, even more exciting is the opportunity  
to meet and play with a great many other children.  
Something their usual lifestyle on scattered holdings  
doesn't allow.

Though nowhere near as permissive as Elves the  
Dunedain do tend to go easy on the discipline for the  
first ten or twelve years of their children's lives.  
Knowing only too well how grim their adult lives are  
likely to be. Strangers are often painfully struck by  
the contrast between the lively, high spirited  
youngsters and their silent, watchful elders.

2\. Actually she's much older. Ellemir is one hundred  
and seventy five, a venerable age even for a member of  
the Royal House.


	6. War In The North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.

Luckily the living quarters of the Palace, away  
from the great halls and chambers of state, weren't  
anywhere near as overwhelming - though not exactly  
what a Breelander would call 'homey'.

Gil, Treebole and Silverlock didn't reappear but  
Beomann made friends with the young Ranger in grey  
and white who brought their lunch and their supper and  
seemingly had been assigned to look after them.

He really was young too, just Beomann's age, and  
only a little taller with soft black hair, brown skin  
and startlingly pale grey eyes. His name was Danilos,  
but he didn't mind being called Dan.

"Why do you all have such odd names?" Beomann asked  
idly the next morning as he lay by a pool in the  
Palace gardens with the Ranger sitting cross-legged  
nearby.

Dan smiled down at the arrow he was fletching.  
"Because they're in the Grey Elven tongue not a  
language of Men."

"So you people are part Elf."

He shook his head. "Only some of us, the Line of  
Isildur of course and a few other Houses. Most  
Dunedain are mere Men."

Beomann's look was skeptical. Men maybe, but there  
was nothing 'mere' about them.

"Our ancestors adopted the Elven speech three Ages  
ago," the other continued, "when they allied with the  
High Elves of the West against the Great Enemy."

Beomann sat up, blurting the question that had been  
bothering him all night. "Dan, what's happened to your  
people?"

The Ranger put the finished arrow down beside the  
others and took an unfletched shaft from the pile, his  
face grim and sorrowful and much older than it had  
been just a second ago. "We have won a great victory  
but it has cost us almost all we had."

"Gil said your homes had been burned." Beomann  
offered awkwardly.

"There isn't a holding or strong place left  
standing north of the road." Dan said baldly, hands  
busy with his arrow. "And the south and the east are  
little better off. Raiders even won through to Lune  
Dale and the Tower Hills and that's never happened  
before, even in the worst of the Flood Years."

Beomann frowned, puzzled. "Flood Years?"

Another bleak smile. "Our name for times when our  
Enemy has come near to overwhelming us. This year was  
the worst - and the last."

"There've been others?" Beomann'a blood chilled,  
how long had this war been going on with Bree knowing  
nothing about it?

"To many." Dan said flatly.

Beomann decided not to pursue that question just  
yet. "And this is where the Rangers went when you all  
disappeared?"

But Dan shook his head. "Only the children, the old  
and some of the women. Those still fit to bear arms  
went North to face the Enemy."

"Enemy, what enemy?"

"Angmar." the Ranger answered grimly.

"The Witch Kingdom? But I thought - wasn't it  
destroyed?"

"Oh yes." even more grimly. "Carn Dum was leveled  
and her people scattered. But that was no more the end  
of them then the destruction of Fornost was the end of  
the Dunedain.

"As the power of Sauron grew so did the numbers and  
might of the Hill Folk and Carn Dum was rebuilt. Orcs  
and Trolls multiplied in the Mountains, and other Dark  
things came forth from their hiding places."

"Like the Wights." said Beomann.

Dan nodded. "We have been hard pressed these last  
years. Foot by foot they drove us back until the Line  
of Defense was just a few miles north of the Road.  
Then, at the begining of March, Greymere fell and the  
Line was broken."

"What was Greymere?"

"The seat of the Wardens of the Weather Hills and  
key to control of the Road. When we lost Greymere we  
lost the power to defend our country people from the  
storm to come.

"So the Lady and the Captains decided to carry the  
battle to the Enemy and that the time for secrecy was  
ended." Dan's sudden smile glinted like the steel edge  
of a sword. "The Captains rode to Rivendell to get the  
Arms and Banners of the Kings from Lord Elrond and the  
rest of us brought out the weapons and trappings our  
ancestors had put aside, at Aranarth's bidding, over a  
thousand years ago when first we became Rangers."

"So Nightcrow - Lady Ellemir that is - is your  
leader?" Beomann asked puzzled. "What about Strider, I  
thought he was Chief of the Rangers?"

"And so he is, Isildur's Heir and our King. But he  
was down in the South, as he still is, and in his  
absence my Lady, his grandmother, governs the  
Dunedain.

"Nightcrow is Strider's grandmother!" Beomann  
interupted. And if she was Gil's grandmother too that  
must mean - "Gil's royalty? He's descended from the  
Kings?"

Dan gave him a look of mild surprise. "He is the  
next in blood, the heir until the Dunadan gets himself  
another." a faint smile. "Which he may now at last!"

Beomann flopped back on the grass. Stupid of him,  
he should have realized as much for himself when he  
saw Nightcrow sitting on a throne. "So you went  
north?" he prompted.

Dan nodded, eyes shining. "It was like the Elder  
Days had come again, the ranks of knights and  
men-at-arms with the sunlight glittering on their  
armour, and of archers with the great Numenorean  
warbows over their shoulders, a full ten thousand in  
all, and the banners of the High Kingdom, Arthedain  
and the Heirs of Isildur flying over our heads."

"You were there?"

A look of surprise. "Of course." continued: "The  
Elves of Lindon and the Lake sent what strength they  
could spare to join us, in memory of our ancient  
alliance, some nine hundred in all.

"We met the vanguard of Angmar's army, four times  
our number or more, at the Gornen -" broke off  
remembering who he was talking to. "but I don't  
suppose you know the far northern lands?"

"How could I?" Beomann asked drily.

Dan smiled faintly and explained. "It's a small  
river some fifty leagues north of here. In spring and  
summer it carries snowmelt from the Rhudaur Hills but  
spring came late this year, as I'm sure you remember,  
so its bed was nearly dry.

"They were still in marching order when we  
encountered them, mounted Hill Men in the advance and  
Orcs on foot behind. The Captain led our horse in a  
charge on the Hill Men while our archers and  
foot-soldiers flanked them to engage the Orcs."

Dan's eyes sparkled at the memory. "The shock of  
being suddenly attacked by a foe long thought dead was  
too much for the Enemy, they soon broke and fled  
northward, carrying their panic with them to infect  
the main host.

"Their captains spent some days trying to find a  
way round us, but finally braced themselves to face us  
beneath the Angmar Hills." shook his head. "They chose  
their ground badly, a narrow sloping plain with the  
high Hills on one side and the deep gorge of the  
Forochel River on the other, making it impossible for  
them to spread out and take full advantage of their  
numbers.

"The Captain set the Warden of the Weather Hills to  
guard our left flank from attack through the Hills.  
And himself took command of our left wing, giving that  
of the right to the Lady Ellemir." Dan paused,  
realizing from Beomann's blank expression he was  
becoming too technical. "The Captain aimed his attack  
directly at the leaders of the Enemy host while Lady  
Ellemir and the Warden kept our flanks from being  
turned, the Enemy from getting round us that is."

"I see." Beomann said. Military strategy was new to  
him but he felt he had a sort of grasp of what Dan was  
saying.

"They ran again and we followed to the plain before  
Carn Dum itself." smiled grimly. "Then at last they  
had us at a true distadvantage for their numbers  
covered the field, protected by dikes and traps, worse  
still they had two dragons -"

"Dragons!" Beomann interupted.

"Small ones, fifty or sixty feet no more." that  
smile again. "We were expected to attack headlong, as  
we had been doing, but of course that would have been  
folly, instead we circled rightward around their  
prepared position. The tried to stop us with cavalry,  
then set the dragons on us. Our archers brought them  
down and Ingloron killed them on the ground but was  
sore hurt in the doing. Finally they were forced to  
leave their entrenchments to attack us on ground of  
the Captain's choosing, but even so we would have been  
worsted had not the Ringbearer destroyed Sauron and  
all his works just in the knick of time.

A raised eyebrow. "You do know about the Ring?"

"Heard all about it - from Gandalf and Mr. Baggins  
himself."

"Of course, they would have passed through Bree on  
their way home to the Shire. The Enemy broke and fled,  
again, but that wasn't the end of it. We still had to  
besiege and take Carn Dum, drive the Hill Men back  
into their hills, and hunt out and destroy the  
scattered hosts of Orcs and Wargs and other things."

"And that's what you've been doing since you all  
vanished." said Beomann.

"In the north, yes. Our kin to the east and south  
have had their own battles to fight. It is only  
recently we've had the leisure to take up our  
patrolling again. I know that's been hard on Bree and  
the other country folk. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it." Beomann said, and this time  
it was his turn to sound grim. "We managed."  



	7. They Also Serve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.

  
Nobody seemed to understand how he felt, certainly  
not his fellow Breelanders.

"Be reasonable, Beomann," Tim Brockhouse said  
patiently. "We Breefolk aren't warrriors, neither the  
Big nor the Little." Tim was a Hobbit. "What good  
would it have done us, or the Rangers, if we'd known  
all this? We'd only have worried ourselves sick over  
things we couldn't help."

"Tim's right." Geoff Heathertoes agreed. "We're  
plain, practical folk in Bree, not heroes or wizards.  
The Rangers were quite right to let us tend to our  
business in peace."

"While they defended us!" Beomann demanded.

"Why not?" Dan Rushlight chimed in. "That's their  
business isn't it? Let them get on with it I say."  
frowned a little. "Mind you we could have been a good  
bit kinder and more helpful, would have been too if  
we'd known."

The other Men and Hobbits nodded agreement. "Well  
we know now don't we?" said Tim's brother Tam, "We'll  
make it up to them."

"Oh you're all hopeless!" Beomann cried, and  
slammed out of the room.

He stormed down the long, empty palace corridor and  
out a door opening onto a sort of hanging porch or  
gallery looking over the city to the Lake only to find  
it already occupied.

For a moment he completely failed to recognize the  
Man in dark grey velvet perched on the parapet between  
two sleader pillars. Then he did and his jaw dropped.

"Gil?"

He nodded, eyes glinting amusement. "I clean up  
well, do I?"

That was an understatement! Gil's hair was clean  
and combed and crowned by a thin circlet of silver  
twisted with gold and there was a chain thick set with  
pearls glimmering against the soft velvet.

He looked like a prince and Beomann remembered  
abruptly he *was* a prince, descended from the King  
who had disappeared and close kin to the one who'd  
returned, and his hurt, frustration and anger  
overflowed.

"You didn't tell us! The Elves and Dwarves knew all  
about you but you hid yourselves from us, your own  
people! It's not right, it's not fair!"

Gil looked at him in astonishment as he continued  
bitterly. "But maybe you were right, the others don't  
seem to care there's been a war going on for a  
thousand years with us knowing nothing about it,  
coddled like we were children." Beomann's eyes filled  
with tears. "We were the King's people too, as much as  
you, he should have trusted us."

"It was not a lack of trust." Gil said emphatically, got up  
from his perch to put two firm hands on Beomann's  
shoulders and transfix him with a level silver-shot stare.  
"There are no braver or loyaler folk in all Middle Earth than  
our own country people, and nobody knows that better than  
the House of the Kings. Men and Hobbits alike fought  
valiantly in the Witch Wars and paid a bitter price for it. They  
died by the thousands in the plague years, were driven  
from their lands by the Enemy and lost nearly half  
their men to war.

"When your fathers swore allegiance to the Kings we  
swore in return to defend you from foes." a wry twist  
of the lips. "It seemed to Aranarth that while you had  
more than kept your side of the bargain we had done a  
very poor job of keeping ours."

"That wasn't your fault."

"In a sense it was." Gil said soberly. "The Dark  
Lord cared nothing for Men of your kind or Hobbits, it  
was Isildur's heirs and the Men of Westerness he  
sought to destroy. It was never your war."

"Tell that to Frodo Baggins."

Gil blinked, then laughed. "You're right of course.  
The fight against the Shadow belongs to us all, and it  
was not the 'High Men of the West' who won this  
battle." he shrugged. "Forgive me, sometimes we tend  
take to much upon ourselves." continued. "Aranarth  
thought to give your people time to recover and  
rebuild, and afterwards there seemed no reason you  
involve you directly as you were doing good service as  
you were."

Beomann gave him a look of open skepticism and he  
smiled. "No truly, not only did you grow the food we  
needed to sustain us but you kept Arnor from turning  
entirely into the Wild."

The younger Man thought that over. "Well...maybe  
you've got a point there. But I still think we should  
have been told."

"Maybe we were wrong." Gil conceed, flashed a quick  
smile, "it wouldn't be the first time. But please  
believe we meant no slight to your people's valor or  
their loyalty."

"All right." Beomann mumbled, feeling mollified  
almost in spite of himself, and a little silly.

"I'm glad your folk hold no grudge as we will be  
needing your help badly." the Ranger continued.

"*Our* help?" Beomann repeated, incredulously.

Gil nodded, picked up the letter he'd been reading  
off the parapet ledge. "Aragorn - Strider, the King -  
has in his infinite wisdom resolved to rebuild the  
cities." his dry tone suggested he was none to  
enthusiastic about the idea.

But Beomann's eyes glowed. "Rebuild the cities?  
Norbury and Sudbury and Wutherington?" (1)

Gil's eyebrows rose a little and he tilted his head  
thoughtfully. "The idea appeals to you?'

"Of course! You need us to help with the building?"

A shake of the head. "No, we'll have the Dwarves  
and our kin from the South to help us there, We need  
you to teach us how to live in a settled country  
again." Beomann stared and he smiled wryly. "We've  
lived lone in the Wild for more than a thousand years,  
and its been at least that long since we practiced any  
trade but war." his face turned suddenly sad. "Much  
has been forgotten," he continued softly, "commerce  
and crafts and the growing of food. We can relearn  
those things from you."

Beomann had a brief, incongruous vision of a class  
of solemn Rangers listening attentively as he lectured  
them on innkeeping. "If that's what you want."  
*********************************************

1\. Norbury is Fornost, Sudbury Cardol and Wutherington  
was the city that once stood on the slopes of  
Weathertop beneath Minas Sul, the Tower of the Winds.


	8. Home Again, But Not At Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.

Treebole and Dan escorted the wagons back to Bree.  
Their folk welcomed the train home with almost tearful  
relief, but listened rather skeptically to stories of  
golden towers and silver trees and magic gates.

To Beomann's surprise his father seemed even less  
enthusiastic about rebuilding the cities than Gil had  
been. "We don't want a lot of outsiders tearing up the  
Wild and making trouble. We've had enough of that!"

"Dad! This would be the Rangers." Beomann  
protested, scandalized.

Butterbur had the grace to look embarrassed. "Well  
of course that's a little different, no offense meant."

"Naturally they want to live like decent folk  
again," Mrs. Butterbur said, with a kindly smile at  
Dan, "who wouldn't, the poor dears."

"Perfectly understandable you'd be concerned, Mr.  
Butterbur," Treebole said with a straight face but a  
fugitive glint of amusement in his eye, "given what's  
happened here lately. But I promise you the Dunadan's  
thinking of proper settlements of respectable folk  
following the King's Law, not camps of brigands or  
tramps, and none near enough to Bree to crowd you."

"Wutherington would be the closest and it's more  
than twenty leagues away as the crow flies." Dan put  
in encouragingly.

"Just think how good it will be for business, Dad,"  
Beomann added, "what with people travelling back and  
forth between the cities and all."  
  
"That would be all to the good." Butterbur  
admitted. "But the idea takes a little getting used  
to, if you take my meaning. We don't like change here  
in Bree, 'specially since it's mostly for the worst -  
or has been."

Treebole smiled wryly. "Well if it's any comfort to  
you, Mr. Butterbur, we're none to sure how we feel  
about it either. It's been quite a while since we  
lived like 'decent folk' and it's going to take some  
getting used to for us too."  
***

Beomann just couldn't seem to settle back down to  
the hum-drum life of Bree. It wasn't that he yearned  
for white marble cities with golden domes, the very  
air fairly stiff with magic - far from it! What he  
couldn't stand was the thought of all the things going  
on out there somewhere; battles being fought, cities  
rebuilt and a kingdom being reborn with him knowing  
nothing about it and having no part in it at all.

His father saw his discontent and it worried him.  
"We should never have let him go," he told the Missis,  
"who knows what ideas it's put into his head?"  
But he, Butterbur, was getting some odd notions of his  
own these days.

Part of him wanted Bree to stay exactly the way it  
was, just as he'd told Treebole. Yet somehow he  
couldn't forget the vision Silverlock's song had shown  
him; the fruitful, golden land with tall cities and  
tall Kings to guard it. If Strider - the King he  
should say - could bring those days back again surely  
it would be a good thing? Dimly Butterbur forsaw the  
possibility of a larger, more prosperous Bree. No  
longer a lonely island of habitation lost in the Wild  
but an important center in a greater realm.

It was more than a month since Dan and Treebole had  
disappeared into the Wild, on patrol they said, and  
neither they nor any other Ranger had been seen in  
Bree since. The lack of news was driving Beomann half  
mad.

"And they have these lamps," he told his mother and  
sisters early one morning as they swept and scrubbed  
the common room for another day's custom, "glassy  
globes in silver cages. Perfectly clear by day but at  
night they glow all silvery-blue. And they hang them  
from the trees lining the streets and in the parks to  
light them up at night."

"Dear me," said his mother, "how does anybody get  
any sleep then?"

"Oh it's not so bright as all that." Beomann  
assured her. "And it's very pretty to see, like little  
moons caught in the branches of the trees."

"Hmmm." Ishbel Butterbur straightened to give her  
son a thoughtful look. "Pretty maybe, but it doesn't  
sound very homey to me."

"It's not." he agreed ruefully. "I'm glad to have  
seen the Kings' City but I wouldn't want to live  
there!" he meant it too, every word, and his mother  
knew it and was satisfied.

"I'd like to see it too." Lusey, Beomann's youngest  
sister, said suddenly.

Her mother frowned at her, then smiled. "To tell  
the truth so would I. Maybe someday we'll let Beomann  
take us there." and all four of her children looked at  
her in amazment for Ishbel had never gone farther than  
the Forsaken Inn, nor wanted to. Not even to the  
annual fair at Hoarwelling.

The outer door opened and Mr. Butterbur hurried to  
the counter to greet the first customer of the day.  
"Longbow!"

Beomann dropped his broom and rushed around the bar  
to see for himself. All Rangers were tall, topping the  
Bree Men by a half head or more, but Longbow was a  
real giant, the tallest Man Beomann had ever seen, and  
carried a bow as long as he was, hence his name.  
  
"Has there been any more trouble with the Hill  
Men?" he demanded, "and have they started the  
rebuilding yet? And is there any word of when the  
King's coming home?"

Longbow looked at him in astonishment and his  
father clucked his tongue. "Now, now, Beomann, what  
kind of greeting is that? At least let the Man sit  
down before you start pelting him with questions."

"That's all right, Mr. Butterbur." Longbow assured  
him, smiled kindly down at Beomann. "I'm afraid I  
don't know any more about the state of the northern  
frontier than you, my duty lies in the south and the  
east. Nor do I know when Aragorn plans to come home,  
soon I hope. As for the rebuilding, that's why I've  
come, to meet Gilvagor and Aranel and inspect the  
sites of Wutherington and Sudbury."

"Gil's coming here?"

Longbow nodded. "Bree is a convenient meeting place  
for us. They should arrive sometime today."

"That's nice," Butterbur said, perhaps a little to  
heartily, "always a welcome for Rangers here." Longbow  
had the courtesy to betray no surprise at this  
startling new sentiment. "And what is your right  
name?"

"Belegon son of Belecthor." the Innkeeper's face  
congealed and he added quickly. "But Longbow does very  
well."

"No, no, Belegon it is." repeated to himself under  
his breath. "Bel-e-gon, Bel-e-gon. Right, got it."


	9. A World Beyond Bree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.

  
Who is this 'Aranel' coming with Gil?" Barliman  
Butterbur asked his eldest son as the two of them  
hastily swallowed their lunch in the kitchen. Ishbel,  
hands covered with flour, was making pies further down  
the long wooden table.

"That's Lightfoot's real name." Beomann answered  
and saw his mother's face congeal. "She's Gil's  
sister." he continued quickly remembering Ishbel's  
past comments on that subject, ('Shameless hussy and  
no better than she should be I'll warrant!) "her  
husband was killed in the fighting up north I told you  
about."

Mrs. Butterbur's expression changed, as if by  
magic, from scorn to burning sympathy. "Oh the poor  
thing! any children?"

"Three, including a new baby."

"Oh my! how dreadful, the poor dear."

Beomann reflected ruefully that 'poor dear,' was  
not a phrase he'd ever apply to Lightfoot, widow and  
mother of orphaned children though she might be.  
  
When Gil finally appeared late that afternoon he  
had not just Aranel but her two elder children with  
him: Daeron, a dark, serious faced boy of nine; and  
six year old Lalaith, a pretty golden haired little  
thing whose big blue eyes and beaming smile instantly  
won the heart of everybody in stable yard and Common  
Room.

"Really, Lightfoot - Mistress Aranel I meant to say  
\- dragging young children all this way through the  
Wild. I'd have expected you to know better!" Ishbel  
scolded as she cut generous slices of cake and served  
them to the two children.

"Daeron will be Warden of the Weather Hills  
someday, and so responsible for any settlement below  
Weathertop." Aranel explained calmly, adding with a  
glint of humor. "And if Daeron was to have his head  
cut off Lalaith would insist on loosing hers too, on  
the same block to the same axe."

Ishbel nodded ruefully. "Don't I know it, my lot  
are just the same." She poured a couple of tall  
glasses of buttermilk for the little ones and snuck  
another sidelong look at their mother.

Lightfoot had always been rather too pretty in her  
dark mysterious way to suit the goodwives and maidens  
of Bree, but all of a sudden Ishbel saw she was not  
merely pretty but beautiful - more beautiful than any  
ordinary Woman could be, like a lady in an old story  
from the Days of the Kings. She couldn't understand  
how she'd never noticed before.

Certainly she wasn't the only one noticing now! The  
number of dropped jaws and round eyes in the Common  
Room had moved her to suggest a private parlor - using  
the children as an excuse.

Why even old Barliman, loving and loyal husband  
that he was, could barely tear his eyes away and kept  
losing the thread of the conversation he was having  
with Gil and Longbow - or Belegon as he called  
himself.

"Provisioning the building crews will be the main  
problem, if Aragorn insists on proceeding with this  
project." Gilvagor said, firmly drawing the  
Innkeeper's wandering attention back to himself.  
"We're going to need your help there Master  
Butterbur."

"You don't mean to quarter all those Dwarves and  
Men from down South here in Bree, do you?" Barliman  
asked in lively alarm.

"Certainly not." Gil reassured him. "They'll camp  
on the building site. But I was hoping you'd be  
willing to use your connections to help us keep them  
fed - for a suitable commission of course!"

"Oh, yes, of course." that sounded promising  
anyway. "Er, when can we expect all these folk?"

"Not for another year or two at least." Gil  
replied, even more reassuringly. "Plenty of time to  
make the necessary arrangements."

And to get used to the idea. But after all they'd  
always had odd folk passing through Bree. What were a  
few more - especially if they were good paying  
customers for the Inn?

The parlor door opened and Beomann came in  
balancing a tray with a pair of fresh pitchers of beer  
on it. He set it on the table in front of the three  
Men and said in a rush; "Gil, there's something I  
wanted to ask you."

The Ranger raised a gently interrogative eyebrow  
and Barliman Butterbur looked apprehensively at his  
eldest son who blurted: "What would I have to do to  
join the Rangers?"

Barliman's mouth opened but nothing came out.  
Ishbel was similarly struck speechless, clutching the  
milk jug to her breast.

Beomann rushed on: "I know you take folk who aren't  
your kind, Dan told me, so - so would you take me?"

"As you yourself pointed out the Men of Bree are as  
much the King's Folk as the Dunedain or the Men of  
Rhudaur -" Gil began mildly, only to be interupted by  
a heartfelt cry from Ishbel.

"He mustn't go! what will we do without him?"  
  
"Quite right." her husband agreed. "What are you  
thinking of, Son? We need you here at home."

"You do not! You've got plenty of hands to do the  
work of the Inn." Beomann snapped back, then  
contritely. "I'm sorry, Dad, but I'll go crazy if I  
stay here. The Realm's coming back to life and I want  
to be a part of it!"

"You'll get yourself killed!" his mother wailed,  
"fighting Barrow Wights and who knows what other  
horrors!"

"I can't promise he won't get killed, but I do  
promise he'll be taught to defend himself." Gil  
answered her.

Beomann's face lit up. "Does that mean you'll take  
me?"

"Not against your parents' will," Gil looked at the  
elder Butterburs, "but such enthusiasm should not be  
wasted." even more gently. "You must have expected  
this."

Barliman nodded heavily. "I've been afraid of it  
ever since he came back from your city." looked at his  
wife. "Beomann's of age, Sweetheart, we'd have no  
right to stop him if he took it into his head to  
become a trader or move to Staddle, I don't see how  
this is any different."

Ishbel didn't argue, just stood there dripping  
tears. Aranel put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "All  
children all lost from the begining, Mrs. Butterbur.  
Like hawks they must be let to fly when the time  
comes."

"I do not forsee death for Beomann, Ishbel." Gil  
told her, "And I do see him coming home, in time, to  
Bree."

"Of course I will!" Beomann but his arms around his  
mother. "I love Bree, I wouldn't want to live anywhere  
else. I just want to see other places too, and be  
where things are happening."

Longbow - Belegon - smiled. "You're not the first  
Butterbur to feel that way, my friend. Sir Tolman  
would be proud of you."

All three Butterburs stared at him in confusion.  
"Who?"

Belegon's eyebrows knit in a slight frown. "Tolman  
Butterbur of Upwood who fell in the final defense of  
Cardol. I don't know what kin he would be to you but  
surely that's his shield you have above your bar?"

"Is it?" Barliman said a little blankly. "Upwood  
did you say? That's our family all right. We had a  
good farm there before the Great Dying (1) drove us  
north to Bree."

"One of my ancestors was a King's knight?" Beomann  
asked wonderingly.

"More than one." said Belegon. "There were several  
others I believe, but Sir Tolman is the only one  
remembered in song."

"Remembered in song." Ishbel echoed, squared her  
shoulders. "Well then, Son, you have something to live  
up to don't you!"

"I don't doubt but he will." said Gil.  
************************************************

(1) The terrible Plague of 1636 decimated the  
non-Dunedain population of Cardolan. The survivors  
fled northward in hopes of escaping the contagion  
which was said to be less virulent in the higher,  
cooler clime near the road.

King Elboron of Cardolan died not of the plague but  
of exhaustion from his unavailing efforts to save the  
sick and grief over his failure to do so, leaving no  
direct heir. The High King took the depopulated  
country's scepter back into his own hands and Cardolan  
ceased to exist as a seperate sub-kingdom.


	10. On The Road Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.

Beomann stood in his room looking discouragedly at  
everything he owned in the world piled up on his bed.  
Turned gratefully at a knock at the door.

"Come in." delightedly: "Dan!"

The young Ranger smiled. "The Captain tells me  
you're joining us."

Beomann nodded, looked again at the bed. "But I  
don't know what to take."

Dan raised his eyebrows slightly. "You didn't have  
any trouble packing for your last trip to Annuminas  
did you?"

Beomann shook his head. "But that was just for a  
short visit, now I'm going there to *live* - maybe for  
years."

"That does make a difference." Dan agreed, studied  
the heap on the bed. "Well you're not going to need  
that," he said pointing to Beomann's holiday suit,  
"but you are definitely going to be wanting *that*."  
and the pointing finger shifted to the sword from the  
barrow.

The Breelander smiled palely. "I figured out that  
much for myself."

"I think you can leave the ninepins and throwing  
rings," Dan continued with twinkle in his eye as  
Beomann blushed, "but take the bow and the folding  
knife."

"It's not much of a bow, just for playing at  
rovers." Beomann said apologetically.

"It will do for target practice at least, until we  
can get you another." the Ranger answered. "What is  
this, a book?"

Beomann blushed again, even redder. "Oh that. A  
trader came through a few years ago with a lot of odds  
and sods from some estate sale in the Shire. It's a  
collection of old stories."

"So I see," Dan said, turning the pages. "'The  
Coming of the King', 'The Tale of Whiteflower', 'The  
Dragon of Gram Mountain', 'The Deed of the  
Woodcutter's Son', 'The Song of the Lonely Queen',  
'The Quest of the Knights of the North'..." he shook  
his head wonderingly. "I'd never have guessed your  
folk or the Little Ones remembered so much from the  
Olden Times."

"You thought we'd forgotten about the Kings didn't  
you?" Beomann challenged.

"Frankly yes. It has been a dozen lives of your  
kind of Men since there was a King in the North, more  
than enough time to be forgotten. Or so we all  
thought."

"Well you were wrong."

"So I see." Dan smiled ruefully. "And not for the  
first time."

Beomann licked his lips. "Are they true, the  
stories I mean."

"Oh yes," the Ranger answered, still studying the book.  
"well mostly. We have histories that tell them in  
full."

Beomann's face lit up - then fell. "In Westron?"

"Some, but many more are written in Sindarin, or  
the High Tongue of Old."

"Are those hard to learn?" Beomann asked anxiously.

"Very. Or so the Men of Rhudaur tell us." Dan  
smiled encouragingly. "But you will have all the help  
you could wish for if you want to try."  
***

When he came downstairs, saddlebags packed, Beomann  
discovered his Dad and Mum had bought him a horse  
as a going away present, one of the fine Thornhill  
riding stock favored by all the gentry. A beautiful  
animal, bright bay with black stockings and an  
intelligent eye, who must have cost a mort of silver  
pennies.

Beomann was touched almost to tears by the  
gesture, and found himself choking up in the most  
unexpected and embarrassing way - and at his age too!  
\- as he said his good-byes.

The Rangers - the *other* Rangers Beomann reminded  
himself - had tacfully taken themselves off to the  
stableyard so he had a chance to pull himself together  
and dry his eyes before going to join them.

Half the town turned out to see them go. Beomann,  
acutely aware of the sword buckled over his jacket,  
and breeches, was certain he looked more than a little  
ridiculous even on the new horse. But happily the  
townsfolk's attention was mostly on young Daeron and  
his sister, Ranger children being something they'd  
never seen or even imagined before.

Beomann caught more than a few disapproving looks  
and somber headshakings among the old gaffers, but  
saw also some wistful and even envious expressions  
on the faces of the younger folk. Then they were out  
the open gate and on the Great Road heading westward.  
***

"What is his name?" Gil asked.

Beomann blinked blankly up at him then realized the  
Ranger was talking about his new horse. "Brandywine,  
like the river."

"Which we call the Baranduin. 'Baran' meaning  
golden brown and 'duin' river."

"So duin is your word for river." Beomann said  
tucking the fact away.

"One of them." Gil answered. "'Sir' is also river,  
deriving from an ancient High Elven root meaning  
'flow' as of water. Or 'Celu' which refers  
specifically to swift running waters."

"Duin, Sir, Celu." Beomann repeated. "Three  
different names for the same thing?"

"Elves love words and coined many, each with its  
own subtle shades of meaning." Gil explained. "One of  
the things that make their languages so difficult to  
learn and even harder to use correctly."

"That's encouraging." Beomann said gloomily.

The Ranger smiled. "Yet many Men have learned to  
speak both tongues well, no reason why you should not  
\- if you are willing to work at it."

"I want to read those books Dan mentioned." Beomann  
told him.

"Then we shall have to teach you the tengwar, the  
Elvish script, as well."

"They can't even write with the same letters as the  
rest of us?" the Breelander demanded almost  
despairingly.

"All letters are Elven in origin." Gil replied  
calmly. "Eastern Men and the Dwarves adapted the Grey  
Elven cirth to their own uses. But the Tengwar is the  
alphabet of the High Elves of the West, adopted by the  
Fathers of Men in ancient times." he smiled. "But  
since Men are changeable by nature we must needs alter  
anything that comes to our hand to suit ourselves. The  
letters you learned are not quite the same as those  
used by my kin which have deviated least from the  
Elven mode."

Beomann sighed. "Fine. So I have to learn two  
languages and a new alphabet as well. It'll give me  
something to do in between fighting Wights and Bandits  
and Orcs and what else."

Gil laughed. "Don't forget rebuilding long ruined  
cities."

"I haven't." said Beomann.  



	11. Rangers At Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.

  
Brandywine was three hands shorter than the very  
tall and rather shaggy horses the Rangers rode but  
kept pace with the best of them as they alternately  
walked and trotted until mid-afternoon when the  
company stopped at the Forsaken Inn for lunch.

The Forsaken was much smaller than the Pony, and  
had a discouraged, run down look as it huddled behind  
its protective stockade of massive logs. A lonely  
outpost of the Breeland it was run by a cousin of  
Beomann's. Bannock Butterbur didn't have much to say  
about the company his young relative had fallen into  
but he shook his head a lot. And Aunt Alisoun kept  
muttering 'Your poor mother!' under her breath  
whenever Beomann was in earshot.

But Cousin Ban, unlike Barliman, rather liked the  
idea of new settlements. "More folk on the road means  
more business for me." he observed, puffing his pipe.  
The Forsaken, unlike the Pony, was almost entirely  
dependent on travelers there being naught but a few  
scattered homesteads near enough to give it regular  
custom.

"Once the building begins you'll have all the  
business you could wish for." Gilvagor assured him.

Ban brightened even more. "That sounds promising,  
don't you think Mum?"

Aunt Alisoun snorted. "Don't count unhatched  
chickens." she told her son. "I'll believe it when I  
see it."

"I'm not sure I will even then." Gil replied and  
smiled at her.

Old Mrs. Butterbur blinked, then to the  
astonishment of her nephew and son, smiled in return -  
all but cracking her face. "Not that good fortune  
won't be welcome if it comes." she half apologized.  
"But living hard in the Wild as we do, I don't like to  
get my hopes up you see."

"Very well." said Gil.  
  
They went on after an all to short lunch and  
continued til nightfall. By this time Beomann was  
feeling the effects of his long hours in the saddle  
and even Brandywine was begining to droop, his neck  
losing the proud arch of the morning.

Suddenly Longbow - no *Belegon* Beomann reminded  
himself - who was in the lead, turned southward off  
the road into the rolling grassland winding his way  
between scattered clumps of brush and occasional stone  
outcroppings.

"Where are we going?" Beomann whispered to Dan.

"To Tor Nencair (1), we'll spend the night there."

"Where?"

Dan remembered who he was talking to and explained  
more fully. "A Ranger holding just off the Road."

"I thought you told me all your homes had been  
destroyed." Beomann said, frowning in confusion.

"*North* of the Road. There are still some standing  
south of it."  
***

A mile off the Road a boy suddenly rose up out of  
the dry winter grass, Belegon reined to speak to him,  
unstartled as if he'd expected to be so met. Tall as  
Beomann, but skinny with it as if he'd just got his  
growth, dark haired and light eyed like most Rangers,  
the boy was wrapped in a cloak of mottled greens and  
browns that had rendered him invisible in the twilight  
until he'd moved.

He exchanged a few soft words in the Ranger  
language with Belegon, then walking at his stirrup,  
led them around the slope of a down into a little  
hollow.

At first Beomann didn't see the holding, then he  
did and stared in disbelief. Several turf covered  
roofs rose little more than Man high above the ground  
beneath the steep face of the down. One of these  
proved to be a stable, sunk deep into the earth and  
reached by a covered ramp. They left the horses there,  
cozy with beds of straw and mangers of hay, and  
followed the boy to a cluster of long gabled roofs of  
varying heights and down a steep flight of steps to a  
door in a rough fieldstone wall.

Beomann followed Dan through and came to a full  
stop, jaw dropping. He was standing on the threshold  
of an unusually large but otherwise perfectly ordinary  
kitchen with sanded floor, pewter plates on a dark  
wooden dresser, and cured hams, strings of onions and  
apples, and clumps of herbs hanging from the ceiling.

A girl stood at the long table chopping something  
fine. And a Woman bent over a turning spit, ladling  
juices over the meat. Aproned and flushed with the  
kitchen heat they reminded Beomann, with a twinge of  
homesickness, of his own mother and sisters dispite  
the differences in height and coloring. A calico cat  
dozed contentedly on one of the brick benches inside  
the cavernous fireplace and the Woman, finished with  
her basting, sat down on the other picked up a small  
bowl and began adding pinches of something to a pot  
bubbling on the fender.

Then Lightfoot nudged Beomann from behind and he  
blushed and hastily followed Belegon, Gil and Dan  
through a doorway in the wall next to the big  
fireplace into what looked like a dining room.

Like the kitchen it was unusually large and longer  
than it was wide, and nowhere near so homelike. The  
walls were panelled with strips of willow and alder in  
a chevron pattern and hung with colorful, intricately  
patterned carpets. The chill of the flagstone floor  
was muffled by mats of woven rushes and the ceiling  
beams carved with spirals and flower shapes painted  
blue and green and yellow and red.

A tall skinny boy, some five or six years younger  
than Beomann at a guess, was setting a long table  
covered with a fine linen cloth. The plates and  
tankards were pewter, just like at home, but engraved  
with designs of ships and stars and flowering trees.

A Man with snow white hair and beard rose from a  
cushioned settle drawn up before the fire to greet  
them, the first really old looking Ranger Beomann had  
ever seen and he wondered, a little uneasily, just how  
old one had to be before he started looking it.

He greeted them in the Ranger language but Belegon  
answered in Westron, for Beomann's benefit. "Thank  
you, Ingold, but I fear we're rather a large company  
for you to put up on such short notice."

"Not at all, Captain." the old Man replied. "It  
will fill up the empty spaces. We've been lonely, my  
granchildren and I, with so much of the family away."  
(2)

"And not likely to return anytime soon, I fear."  
Belegon sighed. "All that can be said for conditions  
in the South is that we're better off than the North."  
and they both looked at Gilvagor.

He shrugged. "We have roofs over our heads and  
enough food to get through the winter thanks to our  
friends in Bree and the Shire." shook his head. "But  
we will have to begin all over again and it's hard to  
know where to start."

"Aragorn knows where he wants to start," Belegon  
continued as they all found seats before the fire. "he  
intends to rebuild the cities. Starting with Fornost,  
Minas Sul and Cardol."

Ingold looked startled then dubious, and the two  
boys setting the table stopped their work to stare.  
"An ambitious undertaking." said their grandfather.  
The doubt clear in his voice annoyed Beomann.

"Why doesn't anybody but me seem to like the idea?"  
he blurted. "They were *your* cities after all you  
should want to rebuild them now that you can!"

"It's been a very long time, even by our measure,  
since we were city dwellers." Gil explained. "After  
long years of living solitary in the Wild the idea of  
living cheek by jowl with thousands of other Men is  
not entirely appealing." sighed. "And I wonder if  
there are enough of us left to people even one city  
much less three."

"The numbers coming in to Annuminas show more have  
survived than we at first dared to hope." his sister,  
Lightfoot, reminded him. "And I have spoken with  
emissaries of our kin over the Mountains. They are  
weary of being guests and would like to come home."

"There are more of you?" Beomann asked, startled.  
"Over what mountains?"

"The Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains." she explained.  
"Your people's legend that we went to live with the  
Elves is not entirely wrong, tens of thousands were  
harried from their homes after the fall of Fornost and  
found refuge in the Elven realm of Lindon. Many,  
having no homes to return to, remained there and have  
increased in number over the long years." looked at  
her brother. "And they are accustomed to cities,  
having known both the Havens and Cor Corion." (4)

Gil smiled wryly. "There you are, Beomann, some at  
least of our people will welcome the rebuilding as you  
do."  
*******************************************

1\. 'Watership Down', (assuming 'tor' is singular for  
Tyrn. ;) I couldn't resist.  
  
2\. The Men of age to bear arms, Ingold's son-in-law,  
grandson and the husbands of his great-granddaughters,  
are on Ranger duty in the former Cardolan, tracking  
down fugitive orcs and wargs and putting down bandits  
preying on the local population and refugees from the  
troubles further south. His daughter and  
granddaughter-in-law are also away helping Belegon's  
mother, the Lady of the Red Hills, mediate between  
those refugees and the locals.

There are few settlements south of the Road, the  
fairly large population of Men and Hobbits are  
semi-nomadic after the fashion of American  
frontiersmen. Building themselves log houses or  
tunneling shallow holes and raising a few crops before  
moving on when the fancy takes them. These folk are  
far better acquainted with Rangers than their settled  
kin, though they have no more idea who they really  
are, and are accustomed to enlisting their help in  
dealing with raiding Orcs or Dunlendings.

The refugees are for the most part simple country  
folk of Gondor and Rohan and a few Dunlendings all  
wanting to settle down and build new lives somewhere  
away from the troubles down South. This has brought  
them into conflict with the present inhabitants who  
don't like the idea of their Wild being torn up  
anymore than Barliman Butterbur did.

(3) The Dunedain of Lindon still regard themselves as  
subjects of Isildur's Heirs and over the centuries  
many have crossed the Mountains to take service with  
them. But as the numbers of Elves dropped and those of  
the Dunedain increased they became vital to the  
defense of Lindon's long coast against attacks by the  
Dark Fleet out of Tol Fuin.

(4) The City of Circles, Gil-Galad's ancient capital  
and seat of those Noldor remaining in Middle Earth.


	12. Men But Not Like Other Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.

Master Ingold and his family were the first Rangers  
Beomann had met who seemed almost like plain folk -  
almost.

He and Dan slept in the loft over the dining room,  
or hall as the Rangers called it. The sharply peaked  
ceiling was lined with waxed cloth, to protect the  
occupants from soil filtering through the boards from  
the sod roof, and the cloth painted with strange  
looking trees and flowers. There were four beds, low  
but very long, one in each corner. And each had a  
bench at its foot with pitcher, washbasin, and folded  
linen towels; and a candlestand with a white beeswax  
candle in a copper holder at the head.

The pitchers were taller and slimmer than  
Breelander fashion, and the basins wide and shallow.  
Both were glazed a deep rich red and decorated with  
designs like those on the wall hangings below. The  
towels had embroidered borders and the candleholders  
were wrought in the shape of coiled dragons.  
  
"Dan," Beomann said suddenly, after the candles had  
been blown out, "how old do your people have to be  
before you start looking it?"

"A hundred forty or so as a rule." he answered.  
Then: "In case you're wondering, Ingold is one hundred  
and sixty-one. A very great age indeed for one not of  
a Half-Elven house."

"A hundred and sixty-one!" Beomann's eyes popped  
wide open. "Are you sure? How do you know?"

There was a smile in Dan's voice as he replied:  
"Because his granddaughter married my grandfather."

"He's your great great gandfather?"

"That's right."

Beomann gulped air like a newly landed fish. Now  
there was a thought! His grandfather had lived long  
enough to see his grandchildren, and Granny Butterbur  
was still alive, living with Aunt Belle. But imagine  
having not just grandparents but great grandparents  
and great great grandparents! He began to grasp dimly  
some of the implications of the Rangers' very long  
lives.

But Dan was still talking. "Normally Grandfather  
would have passed on before this, but he didn't want  
to leave his family in such terrible times. I suppose  
he'll hang on a few more years, long enough to see our  
present troubles settled, before laying down his  
life."

"What?" Beomann turned on his side to look at the  
other bed, just visible in the dim red firelight  
reflected through the open trapdoor from the hall  
below. "Dan, are you saying you people can *choose*  
when you're going to die?"

"Well, sort of. It's one of the gifts the Valar  
gave to us - as a reward for our Fathers' help in the  
Wars against the Great Enemy - that we should have  
long lives of undimished vigor with a short, swift  
aging at the end. It is our custom to give up our  
lives willingly before we become enfeebled in mind and  
body."

"You mean you just say; 'I think I'll die today.'  
lay yourselves down and do it?" Beomann asked  
incredulously.

"Well no, not just like that." Dan was begining to  
sound a little uncomfortable. "First you make your  
peace with Arda, with the world that is. Repent of  
your errors and amend them where you can; let go of  
attachments to home and kin and concentrate your heart  
and will on the One. Then, when you desire reunion  
with Him more than continuing your life in the world,  
you're ready to pass on. They say when you reach that  
point it really is as easy as lying down and going to  
sleep."

Beomann, struggling with half a dozen new and  
strange ideas, chose the least disturbing of them. "So  
Ingold's not quite ready to go because he's worried  
about his family?"

"That's right." Dan sounded relieved the Breelander  
had gotten the point so easily, or maybe that he  
hadn't asked any of those other, more awkward  
questions.

Beomann flopped back against his pillow. And here  
he'd just been thinking maybe the Rangers weren't such  
a strange folk after all!  
***

Beomann continued their journey the next day in a  
pensive and distracted frame of mind. Naturally Gil  
noticed, or perhaps Dan dropped him a word, for after  
a few hours on the road - long enough for misty dawn  
to give way to full daylight - he fell back alongside  
the Breelander.

"Is something troubling you, Beomann?" he asked  
after riding beside him in silence for several  
minutes.

"I just can't get a handle on you Rangers!" Beomann  
burst out - to his own considerable surprise.  
"Sometimes I think you're not so different from us  
Bree Men - and other times that you're weirder than  
Elves and Dwarves put together!"

Gil smiled, but wryly. "You're right on both  
counts, my friend. We are Men like other Men, and yet  
we're not. It's not very comfortable for us either." a  
sidelong twinkle. "But of course from our point of  
view it is you Breelanders who are the odd ones."

Beomann stared up at him, half outraged, half  
astonished. "There's nothing odd about us Bree Folk!"

"Isn't there?" Gil asked, suddenly quite serious.  
"Our country folk have a gift for peace, for  
contentment, that Men of my kind can only envy.  
Granted you can be narrow, and parochial and quite  
infuriatingly stubborn," a shadow of a smile quickly  
fading, "but for all that, there are no folk anywhere  
so steadfast in the face of peril or privation."

Beomann could only stare back at him, moved beyond  
words but incredulous "Us?"

"Yes you!" Gil answered. "It has been many long  
years since your strength was tested - we Rangers saw  
to that - but it's still there, ready to come forth at  
need." quietly. "To stand fast against the kind of  
terror wielded by Barrow Wights is no small feat, yet  
your father and the other Bree Men did so - as I knew  
they could." smiled. "And you, my reckless young  
friend, followed me into the barrow itself which I  
most certainly did not expect - but am most grateful  
for."

And Beomann, blushing to the ears, found himself  
wondering suddenly just how much a desire to live up  
to the Rover's trust in them had had to do with the  
Bree Men's unexpected courage - and his own.


	13. The Lost City of the Winds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.

Wutherington was a deep disappointment.

"I said it was in ruin." Dan reminded Beomann a  
little sharply.

"I know, I know. I wasn't expecting Annuminas -" he  
looked up at the steep, rock strewn hillside, "but you  
can't even tell there was a city here."

"Five times Minas Sul was overrun, and four times  
retaken and rebuilt." Lightfoot, the Lady Aranel, said  
softly. "When the Enemy was driven back for the fifth  
time we discovered he had had the city razed to the  
ground, so scarcely one stone was left atop another,  
and we did not rebuild it. Time finished what the  
Enemy began, but we do not forget."

There was a little silence, broken by her young son  
Daeron. "You can't see it from below like this, but  
when you look down from above you can see the outlines  
of houses and streets."

The boy was right. Standing at the edge of the flat  
top of the hill and looking down Beomann could indeed  
make out a tangle of lines, light against the slightly  
darker grass, that might have been the foundations of  
buildings with streets and alleyways snaking between  
them - more like Bree really than Annuminas. The city  
had only reached about two thirds of the way up the  
hill. Above the other buildings but still a few  
hundred feet short of the top was a massive shelf or  
terrace built out from the hillside on which Beomann  
could see the outlines of larger buildings.

"That's the citadel," Daeron told him, "where my  
ancestors lived from the time Urin founded the city to  
the end of the Witch Wars."

It took Beomann a minute to place the name. "Urin?  
the Lord Urin who they say ruled the land before the  
King and fought the Dark Lord himself? He was a real  
person?"

The boy gave him a reproachful look with grey eyes  
very like, had Beomann only known it, the Lord Urin's  
own. "Of course he was real, I am his heir."

Huhh?

"Urin's House, the Maglavorni, is older even than  
that of the Kings, the most ancient Mortal lineage  
surviving in Middle Earth." said Daeron's mother. "And  
they have governed the midlands since the end of the  
First Age when Urin led his people across the  
mountains from foundered Beleriand and built the City  
of the Winds."

"How long ago was that?" Beomann demanded, though  
not at all sure he really wanted to know.

"Something over six thousand years." was the  
stunning reply.

He shook his head. "And we've always said in Bree  
that we were the oldest settlement west of the Great  
Mountains."

"You are." Aranel said even more astonishingly.  
"There was a village on Bree hill when Urin passed  
through, and it was old even then. There's been a  
settlement at Bree from the time Men first came into  
the Westlands." she smiled at Beomann, dazzling him.  
"Your town is far older than the Dunedain."

Once again he had a vertiginous glimpse of the  
depths of time underlying his world, but this time he  
saw also a little village on the side of a hill  
outlasting war and pestilence and the rise and fall of  
Kingdoms and felt a sudden fierce pride in his  
homeland.

"Not much to work with I fear." Gil said, glanced  
at his sister. "As for the tower..." and they all  
turned to look at what remained of the great  
Watchtower of Elendil.

It stood near the middle of the plateau upon a  
rocky knoll, but the fragmentary walls reached no  
higher than Belegon's head. It was as if the tower had  
been sheered away and the upper parts carried off by  
some titanic force.

"There was a watchtower on Amon Sul from Urin's  
time," Gil told Beomann, "but they were simple, wooden  
structures. It was Elendil who had built the Great  
Tower of Amon Sul, surrounded by a shell keep to house  
the garrison he set here to guard his eastern  
frontier."

Belegon and Dan, with little Lalaith tagging  
happily after them, walked a great circle around the  
tower stub, studying the ground. Arriving back at  
their starting place, Belegon looked at Gil and shook  
his head.

"The keep's completely gone. They even dug up the  
foundations."

Aranel, rather startlingly, smiled. "They would."

"I must admit a watchtower here would be very  
useful." Gil mused. "But I fear rebuilding city and  
tower keep is beyond our power, even with the help of  
the Dwarves." saw the disappointment on Beomann's face  
and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry but we just  
don't have the resources Elendil had."

"Aragorn is now King in Gondor." Aranel reminded  
him, but doubtfully.

It was Belegon who answered. "Gondor's little  
better off than we, from what the refugees say. She'll  
have all she can do to restore herself."

"I don't really care," Daeron said seriously, "as  
long as we can rebuild Greymere." looked worriedly at  
his Uncle.

Gil smiled gently down at him. "That much we can  
and will do." Continued briskly. "In fact I would much  
prefer to concentrate on rebuilding our strongholds  
along the Line and leave more ambitious plans for  
later. Much later."

"Aragorn is King." his sister reminded him.

"So he is, but that doesn't mean he can command the  
impossible."  
***

Though bitterly disappointed Beomann couldn't help  
but see Gil's point. Clearly building a whole new city  
in the middle of the Wild, which was what it amounted  
to, was impossible. And if they did, who would want to  
live in it? Not Breelanders, and apparently not the  
Rangers either.

They spent the night in a cave hollowed into the  
knoll beneath the foundations of the tower, and the  
next morning climbed back down the hill, crossed the  
road and headed south-west towards the ruins of  
Sudbury.  



	14. The King's Kin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.

As the company of Rangers zig-zagged up the path  
running through the ditches and earthen ramparts  
defending the hilltop stronghold of the Wardens of the  
South Downs Beomann heard a buzz of voices, like Bree  
on market day, Women's mostly, punctuated by the  
shouts and laughter of children. An altogether  
startling amount of noise for a holding of the  
habitually silent Rangers.

Looking at his companions he saw they were equally  
surprised, exchanging puzzled looks. They passed  
through a short passage between the overlapping banks  
of the final rampart and emerged into what seemed at  
first glance a busy village square crowded with Women  
and children, both Big and Little, who would have  
looked right at home on the streets of Bree if only  
they'd been wearing decent clothes instead of leather  
and fleece. But mixed in with them were folk of other  
kinds; some looked almost like Rangers, tall and fair  
skinned with dark hair and light eyes, yet were not  
quite Rangerlike in their bearing; others were golden  
haired and blue eyed; and still others dark of hair  
and eye with swarthy complexions.

Beomann saw what looked like a large brick and half  
timbered house with barns and byres and sheepfolds and  
cattle pens. And tucked in and around them dozens of  
rough, turf roofed shelters with the women sitting in  
front of them, knitting and gossiping and watching  
their children play.

Daeron and Lalaith brightened visibly at the sight  
of other children and darted off to join them the  
moment they were lifted down from their pillion seats  
behind mother and uncle. The rest of the party were  
still busy with their horses when a tall Ranger Woman  
in a soft grey gown walked into the stable, sunlight  
falling through the loft windows bringing out a  
reddish sheen in her dark hair.

"Beomann Butterbur, my sister Angwen our hostess."  
said Belegon introducing them "Not that she hasn't  
already a plentitude of guests!" Continued to his  
sister: "What is this? When I stopped here on my way  
to Bree our folk and the refugees were ready to go  
their own ways."

"So they were, but every spot the new people  
suggest for their settlement draws cries of protests  
from our own folk." Angwen looked slightly harried.  
"My hall is full of quarreling Men. I don't mind  
telling you, Belegon I am near to losing patience with  
the lot of them!"

"And the Lady of the South Downs has ever been  
notable for her patience!" said Gil, the teasing note  
very clear in his voice.

"I haven't taken a battle axe to them yet have I?"  
the lady retorted. "Though I warn you, Brother, my  
forbearance may not last much longer!"

"Let me see what I can do." said Belegon.  
***

Belegon, Gilvagor, Aranel, Dan and Beomann followed  
Angwen through a doorway onto a sort of platform  
overlooking a very long, very high room with benches  
lined up against the walls beneath pictured tapestries  
and a dozen or so Men, half like Breelanders and half  
of the other kinds, together with a few Hobbits,  
standing in the middle of it wrangling away at the  
tops of their voices.

Suddenly Belegon walked away from the rest of them  
to stand alone at the top of the three or four steps  
leading down to the main floor. He stood there in a  
shaft of light from a high window, one hand on the  
hilt of his sword, and it was almost as if he'd tossed  
aside some concealing cloak. Beomann, who'd known  
'Longbow' all of his life and travelled with him for  
the better part of a week, suddenly saw a kingly power  
flash from him like sword from scabbard and a silver  
light burn bright in his eyes. The arguing Men felt  
his gaze upon them and one by one turned to look and  
fell silent, staring slack jawed.

Belegon allowed the silence to continue for a long  
moment as they stared up at him and he looked down  
upon them. And when at last he spoke his voice, though  
not loud, filled the great room from floor to rafter  
like distant thunder.

"I am Belegon son of Belecthor, Prince of  
Carnarthon and governor of this land in the name of  
the King. Tell me your quarrel."

Beomann, whose own mouth was dry as a bone, was  
quite sure the Men would be unable to answer. Then one  
of the Ranger looking strangers said, or rather  
stammered. "King? Then it is true that there's a King  
again?"

Belegon inclined his head slightly. "There is. He  
is Elessar Telcontar, Elendil's Heir, and rightwise  
born High King of Arnor and Gondor. I am his kinsman  
and liege subject, as are you all." he allowed them  
another moment to absorb that, before saying mildly.  
"Now what is this quarrel of yours?"

The Bree type Men and Hobbits shifted their feet,  
exchanged sheepish looks and finally one of the Men  
said; "Well - sir - it just seems to us like these  
here strangers are trying to take over and walk all  
over the local folk."

"We have no such intent!" the Ranger looking Man  
protested. Added a little shamefaced. "If we have  
seemed high handed I apologize for it. All we want is  
a plot of land to settle on."

Belegon raised his brows slightly. "A reasonable  
enough request." there was a hint of a twinkle in his  
eye as he continued: "Surely, Will Greenroot, there's  
some untenanted patch of ground in the Southern Wild  
you could spare?"

"Well when you put it that way -" Master Greenroot  
conceeded, but still looked unhappy. "It's just that  
this was our land once and we don't quite like the  
idea of giving bits of it away to strangers if you  
take my meaning."

"This is your land, Will," Belegon assured him  
solemnly, "and shall always remain so. But these folk  
are not strangers but our own long sundered kin.  
Surely after all this time we can show them a better  
welcome than angry looks and bitter words?"

Greenroot sighed. "When you're right, you're right  
\- sir." turned to the foreign Man beside him. "I'm  
sorry, but life's been cruel hard these last years and  
I guess it's made us close-fisted and distrustful of  
outsiders."

"We should have remembered we are petitioners and  
borne ourselves more humbly." the other Man answered.  
Smiled a little ruefully. "But life's been 'cruel  
hard' for us too - and having lost all, we cling to  
our pride as the only thing left to us."

Will warmed visibly. "You know, that first spot you  
picked isn't all that impossible - if you don't mind  
neighbors."

"We would be glad of them." the stranger said as  
warmly. "We have always lived in settled lands and  
have much to learn about this Wild of yours."

One of the Hobbits chuckled. "You can say that  
again, begging your pardon, but my folk can hear yours  
coming a mile off and if we can who knows what else  
can too?" and the Men who'd been practically at each  
others throats just moments before shared a wry grin.

"Well now that's settled perhaps you'd like to  
share the news with your good ladies, who I am sure  
are growing impatient." Belegon suggested.

"Impatient." Will said resignedly. "I suppose  
that's one way of putting it." which brought another  
grin from Men and Hobbits both.

The strangers bowed to Belegon, the local folk  
rather awkwardly following suit, and then the whole  
assemblage poured out of the doors and into the noisy  
sunlit yard.

"Now why didn't I think of that?" Angwen wondered  
walking forward to her brother's side.

Belegon smiled down at her. "No doubt for the same  
reason it never occured to me up to five minutes ago."  
shrugged. "But if Aragorn's King in Gondor there's  
surely no reason for the rest of us to stay in hiding.  
Though I doubt our own people will be as impressed by  
the Blood Royal as the Gondorim."

Beomann swallowed twice and was finally able to  
make his voice work. "Trust me, we'll be impressed!"


	15. The Rose of the South

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.

Southwest of the downs was a country of low rolling  
hills threaded with little silvery streams, dotted  
with stands of trees and occasional outcroppings of  
the rust red stone that had given the region its name  
'Carnarthon' the Red Land.

Beomann had never been south of the Road before but  
he knew this country from his grandfather's tales. The  
Butterburs' original home had been somewhere near  
here. A fine big farm, Grandad had said, outside a  
village called Upwood and not far from the King's city  
of Sudbury.

And here was Sudbury, rising from the lowlands  
around it, and it was very different from  
Wutherington. Not only was it immediately obvious that  
a city had once stood here but you might even say it  
still did - after a fashion.

"I must admit this looks more promising." Gil  
conceeded.

"Certainly plenty to work with." Belegon agreed.

The ancient city of Cardol towered above them like  
a mountain seven terraces high, each encircled by a  
massive wall of rose red stone with broken gables and  
domes showing above them between the leafy boughs of  
evergreen trees. At the very top the ruinous stump of  
a great tower, rising two or three stories above the  
citadel wall, was silhouetted against the pale winter  
sky.

A moat fed by five streams encircled the city with  
a great earthen rampart rising above it crowned by the  
first circuit wall, built of man sized blocks fitted  
almost seamlessly together and interupted at regular  
intervals by semicircular bastions, still sharp edged  
and unweathered dispite centuries of neglect.

The company circled the city southward until they  
came to the Greenway, the old, overgrown North-South  
road. The stone bridge that had once crossed the moat  
to the Great South Gate was broken, the missing center  
span replaced by a rather makeshift arrangement of  
wood and rope.

Beomann looked at it so dubiously that Dan had to  
fight back a smile. "Don't worry, it's stronger than  
it looks." he promised.

"I certainly hope so!" the Bree Man answered,  
clearly unconvinced.

But although the bridge quivered alarmingly under  
hoof, hold it did and the company passed safely  
between the great guard towers and under a broad  
arched span into the weedy remains of an open square,  
the broad avenues running out of it on either side  
overshadowed by tall evergreen trees, their branches  
tangling together overhead to turn them into green  
shadowed tunnels. Belegon led the party up the east  
road. Looking from side to side Beomann saw roofless  
facades with blindly gaping windows between the  
massive tree trunks. Side streets opened off the main  
avenue at regular intervals, those on one side sloping  
down to the outer wall, and on the other up to the  
second circuit wall. Every so often the avenue would  
open up into a square decorated with the remains of  
fountains and statues or pass through patches of  
overgrown greenery that had once been parks or  
gardens.

"The outer shells of the buildings are intact for  
the most part, except where we've taken stone for the  
nearer holdings," Belegon told Gil and Aranel, "though  
the interiors were gutted by fire and pillage and  
time. Yet a few score Dwarf masons could doubtless put  
the stonework to right in short order and our own  
carpenters rebuild floors and roofs."

"But who will live here?" Gil demanded.

"The Gondorim perhaps, many of them are townsfolk  
and would doubtless prefer it to farming." Belegon  
suggested.

"They can't be enough to fill all the seven  
circles." Gil retorted, apparently determined raise  
every possible objection.

"Belegon doesn't have to restore all the levels,"  
his sister pointed out. "He can start with the citadel  
and work his way down as the population grows.  
"Really, Gilya, there's no need to be so contrary!"

"You're just determined not to like the idea aren't  
you?" said Beomann.

"It strikes me as impractical and a waste of the  
few resources we have." Gil snapped, then smiled  
apologetically at the Bree Man. "But I have my orders  
and will obey them, if not happily."

They wound their way up the seven levels to the  
high citadel and found its great gate court all but  
buried under the remains of the toppled tower. The  
damage was worse here than in the lower circles, the  
great halls and lesser buildings had not only been  
gutted by fire but their walls partially pulled down.  
The very pavements had been dug up and tiny fragments  
were all that was left of the statues and fountains  
that had once adorned the seat of the Kings of  
Cardolan.

The whole party stood silent under the gate for a  
long moment, looking at the wreckage.

"This will take more than a little work by  
stonemasons and carpenters." Gil observed at last.

"The Dunlendings were very thorough." Belegon  
agreed quietly.

"I hope they left at least one clear spot where we  
may camp the night." Aranel said practically.  
***

Beomann climbed up to the battlemented walk over  
the gate and looked down at the ruined city. The ruddy  
stone of which it had been built glowed in the light  
of the setting sun, and Beomann felt his eyes sting.  
"It must have been very beautiful once."

"It was indeed." Gilvagor agreed quietly: "Beril en  
Harmen, the Rose of the South it was called in the Old  
Days, the pride and delight of the Southern Kingdom."  
  
Beomann turned to look at the Ranger, magically  
materialized next to him. The finely modeled,  
aristocratic features beneath their scrub of beard and  
thatch of unkempt hair looked sad and wistful, like  
one remembering lost splendors.  
  
"Why are you so set against rebuilding it?" Beomann  
asked bluntly.

"Because I do not think it can be done." Gil  
answered. "The past cannot be called up again, and we  
Dunedain and our cities belong to the past. Our time  
is over."

"How can you say that when you're still here?"  
Beomann demanded almost angrily. "Without you there  
wouldn't be a Bree or a Shire or villages along the  
Brandywine, nor towns in the Angle. There'd be nothing  
but Wild from the Blue Mountains to the Misties, and  
it all full of Orcs and Wargs and Bad Men from what  
Dan says."

Gil smiled a little, but still sadly. "Thank you.  
Yes we have saved that much, but much has been lost  
and still more will be. The last of the High Elves are  
preparing to leave Middle Earth and with them will go  
many old friends and kin dear to us."

He was silent a moment, and when he continued he  
seemed to be speaking to himself rather than Beomann,  
perhaps even to have forgotten the Bree Man was there  
to hear. "I didn't expect to have to deal with any of  
this. I thought - we all thought - we marched North to  
our deaths whether the Ringbearer succeeded or no." a  
faint, wry grimace. "It's almost embarrassing to find  
oneself still alive after having resolved to die nobly  
in defense of the West."

Another brief silence, then very quietly: "And I am  
tired, so tired. Rebuilding the holdings and the Line  
is almost more than I can face. I have not the  
strength or the courage to remake a realm." a sigh. "I  
wish Aragorn would come home."

Beomann, appalled, pitying and desperately  
embarrassed, found himself remembering the time, nigh  
on two years ago, when his parents had left him in  
sole charge of the Pony for a whole three weeks while  
they went to help Aunt Alison after half the  
Forsaken's roof had been blown off in an autumn storm  
and Bannock laid up with a broken leg. How  
overburdened he'd felt and how glad he'd been when his  
parents had finally come home and taken the load off  
his shoulders! Gil was much older of course, but then  
he'd had a kingdom and a war left on his hands not  
just an inn, anyway he seemed to be feeling much the  
same now as Beomann had then. He tried to find  
something to say.

"But you're not alone anymore," he managed at last,  
"We Bree Folk will help, and the Hobbits of the Shire  
and all the other villagers and townsmen. We can show  
you how to farm and keep shops and all the rest just  
like you asked. And the Dwarves will help with the  
building and the folk from down South too." he ran out  
of breath and inspiration at about the same time and  
looked nervously at Gil to see what effect he'd had.

The Ranger stared at him in open surprise, he  
really had forgotten Beomann was there. Then he  
smiled. "Thank you, it's ungrateful of me to talk so  
but my spirits have been flat on the ground ever since  
our victory and I don't know why, nor how to raise  
them."

Beomann didn't know either, but he found himself  
wondering rather resentfully why Strider - the King -  
was still lallygagging in the South with so much  
trouble here in the North that needed fixing. High time he  
came home!  
*****  



	16. The Isle of The Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.

The next morning they climbed back down the seven  
levels of Cardol and once outside its gates turned  
southwest towards Tol Ernil, Belegon's home. The hills  
became fewer and lower and the gound between them soft  
and boggy. Occasional clumps of willow and alder  
gradually thickened into a dense forest of knarled and  
ancient trees with meres of still water gleaming  
sullenly among their roots.

Belegon wended his way confidently over this  
treacherous ground, the rest of the party strung out  
single file behind him and Beomann was very careful to  
follow exactly in Gil's tracks for he could see no  
path at all.

Then suddenly from up ahead he heard the  
unaccountable ring of hoof on stone and a moment or  
two later Brandywine stepped from boggy earth lumpy  
with roots onto a moss patched causway running arrow  
straight deeper into the wood. Beomann looked his  
astonishment at Dan who just grinned.

"Not much farther now."

Three miles later the trees suddenly gave way to a  
broad, mirror smooth moat reflecting the red stone  
walls of a castle with a long gabled roof and the  
pinacle of a tower showing above them. Beomann's mouth  
dropped open but before he could get any questions out  
they had clattered across the moat and through the  
tunnel-like arch of a massive gatehouse into a cobbled  
courtyard.

The gabled roof belonged to a very high, very long  
building of the now familiar red stone. The winter  
bare boughs of a huge and ancient oak tree shaded the  
flight steps leading up to the great door. The tower  
beside the hall was linked to it by an arcaded gallery  
raised high above the ground on stout stone piers, and  
had ten rows of windows, some set with colored glass,  
glittering in the sunlight.

No faces appeared at those windows nor did anybody  
emerge from the open door of the hall. The whole place  
was silent and empty as the Elven Princess' Castle in  
the Tangled Wood. Then some Rangers came out of the  
gatehouse to take the horses, Mortal Men not Elves,  
and Beomann silently berated himself for being so  
foolishly relieved. Maybe he *had* read to many old  
stories, just as his Dad had always said.

Inside the long building seemed to be one gigantic  
room. the sun came through big windows, so high up  
they looked small, and reflected off the red stone  
walls and vaulted ceiling causing them to glow with a  
warm and rosy light that made the immense and empty  
hall seem far less and forbidding than one might  
expect.

The floor was paved with squares of black, white  
and red marble. Four doors were spaced at regular  
intervals down each long wall, with three huge cold  
fireplaces set between them. A seventh fireplace,  
larger than the others, was centered on the curved  
wall behind the dais at the head of the hall with  
three black banners hanging above it: one emblazoned  
with an arc of seven stars above a single much larger  
star of many points; a second with a crossed bow and  
quiver beneath another many pointed star; and the  
third, hanging between them, ensigned with a green oak  
tree, a golden sun shining in its boughs, beneath an  
arch of seven silver stars.  
  
"Where is everybody?" Beomann whispered to Dan as  
they followed Belegon and Gil up the length of the  
hall.

"Hollin or the Enedwaith or on patrol." the young  
Ranger answered, "they are as hard pressed here in the  
South as we in the North."

"Though with a somewhat different set of problems."  
said Belegon without turning his head. "Hollin is the  
land between the Loudwater and the Mountains, Beomann,  
and Enedwaith the country south of the Greyflood."

"But that's not our land is it?" the Bree Man asked  
uncertainly.

This time Belegon did look around with a smile.  
"Exactly right. Old Cardolan was bounded by the Road  
in the north, the Hoarwell in the east, the Brandywine  
in the west and the Greyflood in the south. Hollin and  
the Enedwaith have become lurking places for our  
enemies and we have pursued them there."

By now they were climbing up the steps of the dais.  
"The seven and one stars are the banner of the North  
Kingdom," Belegon continued. "the bow and quiver is  
the emblem of my House, the House of the Great Bow,  
and there between them is the oak and sun of  
Cardolan."

Beomann craned his neck to look up at it. 'That's  
*our* banner,' he thought with a surprising surge of  
emotion, 'our kingdom and our own king, near at hand  
in Sudbury not far off at Norbury like the High  
Kings.' Then with a sudden fierce determination:  
'Strider - the King - is right. It *can* be that way  
again and it will be, we'll make it so.'

A door tucked into a corner behind the dais led to  
the wide arcaded passage between hall and tower. At  
the end of it was a double door, made of some  
red-golden metal brighter than copper, engraved with  
the oak and sun. On the other side of that was a big  
round room ringed by gleaming colums of dark grey  
stone, huge arched windows filled with jewel toned  
glass showing between them. A simple chair carved of  
some red material stood on a small dais facing the  
door.  
  
Tucked behind a pillar was yet another door, this  
one opening onto a long stone stair spiraling around a  
great center post and lit by small, deepset windows.  
They passed one landing, shaped like a slice of pie  
with a door opening off it, continued on to a second.  
This door Belegon opened.

Beomann had time to notice no more than the room  
was large and bright with sunlight before a small form  
crying "Papa! Papa!" hurtled out of nowhere to throw  
itself into Belegon's arms. Only to catch sight of  
Aranel's children a second later and promptly wiggle  
free. "Lalaith, Daeron!"

"My son Bellin," Belegon explained to Beoman as the  
little boy happily greeted his cousins. Bellin seemed  
astonishingly small to be his tall father's son, a  
pretty child, like Aranel's two, with light brown hair  
and big blue eyes. "And this is my wife, Finduilas."

Beomann found himself looking up at a beautiful  
lady much taller than himself, though barely coming to  
her husband's shoulder, with a coil of golden hair and  
deep blue eyes. Silverlock was the only other fair  
haired Ranger he had ever seen and he wondered if  
they were related.(1)

"Beomann Butterbur of Bree," Belegon was telling  
his wife, "who's taken service with us."

Finduilas smiled at him. "Welcome to Tol Ernil,  
Beomann Butterbur."

And he turned red to the ears and couldn't think of  
a thing to say, though he did manage a bow. Mercifully  
the lady then turned her attention to her kin and  
Beomann was left free to look around.

It was another of those long, narrow Ranger rooms  
but gently curved to fit into the round tower. The  
outer wall was all big, peaked windows inset with the  
by now familiar Ranger motifs of moons and suns and  
stars, flowers and trees, ships and towers, in colored  
glass. The deep sills under them were spread with  
cushions of green and blue and scarlet making  
comfortable window seats for a number of Women and  
girls busily stitching away.

A spicy scent came from bowls of dried leaves and  
flowers standing among the litter of cloth scraps and  
spools of thread. Beomann realized they were making  
herb-bags like the ones his mother used to repel  
fleas, moths, and other pests. Such homely objects  
seemed out of place here, surely folk living in  
castles didn't have to worry about moth or bugs  
getting into the flour?  
  
He heard Lady Finduilas tell Belegon, "Aragorn has  
sent another messenger." and turned.

"And what does our Lord and kinsman have to say to  
us?" Gil asked, an unspoken 'what now?' very clear in  
face and voice.

"Nothing. He is asking for tidings not sending  
them." Finduilas replied. "It seems he has grown  
impatient waiting for a reply to his last missive."

Gil snorted. "He has no idea what we are facing  
here in the North."

"How can he when we have agreed not to trouble him  
with it?" Finduilas asked reasonably. And Gil smiled  
ruefully.

"I know, I'm not being fair to Aragorn. No doubt he  
has troubles enough and to spare among the Gondorim,  
which is why I can't understand this obsession of his  
with rebuilding the ruined cities."

"That is exactly what he's asking about." said  
Finduilas, and lifted her eyebrows questioningly.

Gil shrugged wearily. "We are agreed Minas Sul is a  
hopeless case," a quick smile, "even Beomann here who  
is wholeheartedly in favor of Aragorn's plan. Stone  
has been carted away and the very foundations dug up,  
there is nothing left to work with. Fornost and Cardol  
are in different case. Only the citadels were  
deliberately slighted, the lower circles are suffering  
from the effects of pillage and time but our ancestors  
built sound and they could be restored with sufficient  
labor."

"Then let you tell Aragorn's messenger so." the  
lady said briskly.  
******

1\. They're not. Finduilas is golden haired like most  
of the House of Urin, descendants of Hador Goldenhead.  
She is in fact the sister of Aranel's late husband Ingloron.


	17. Of Squires and Liveries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.

  
Dan, who was apparently familliar with the castle,  
took Beomann up another winding stair, not the  
original  
one, to a bright, airy chamber two floors above Lady  
Finduilas' sewing room.

It had a pair of wide beds, their carven headboards  
against the inner wall and big chests decorated with  
painted hunting scenes at their feet. The wall  
opposite was slightly curved with two deeply recessed  
windows, one with a table and chair beneath it, the  
other with a cushioned bench. There was a shelf of  
books between the two windows, a fireplace in the  
righthand wall and a door in the left which Dan  
opened to show a small room with a big round bath,  
apparently carved from a single lump of red stone and  
shelves holding pitchers, basins, piles of folded  
linen towels and a big copper kettle.

"Bathroom." he said, rather unecessarily, then  
moved to the foot of the nearest bed to throw open the  
lid of its chest. "Now let's see if we can find a  
livery that will fit you."

'Livery' turned out to be the kind of clothes  
Beomann had seen Dan and other Rangers wearing in the  
palace at Annuminas. Like Breelanders they started  
with a shirt and breeches but instead of waistcoat  
and jacket covered them with a long tunic and an  
equally long sleeveless garment Dan called a surcoat.  
The tunic and surcoat he found for Beomann were a  
shade to long, loose at the waist and tight at the  
shoulder but not enough to be obviously ill-fitting.  
The tunic was of nubby white wool and the surcoat of  
glossy grey leather, both falling nearly to his  
ankles. Beomann felt foolish and was afraid he looked  
it too.

Dan didn't. He had a silver brooch, shaped like a  
many pointed star, to fasten his surcoat at the neck.  
And his belt seemed to be made of grey fur and was  
fastened by a silver clasp like two wolves' heads,  
their jaws locked together. (1)

There was a knock at the door and another young  
Ranger came in. His tunic was green and his surcoat  
black, but he too had a star shaped brooch at his  
throat, Dan greeted him with easy familiarity.

"Camborn, this is Beomann Butterbur of Bree who's  
newly taken service with my Captain. Beomann, Camborn  
is is the service of Captain Belegon and his lady."

"Welcome to Tol Ernil," the new Ranger said to  
Beomann with an apologetic smile, "though I fear you  
find us at less than our best." he turned even more  
apologetically to Dan. "I know it's not done to ask  
labor of guests, but could you two help with the  
serving tonight? There's only Brandir, Elboron and I,  
and Brandir's laid up with a wound." adding quickly at  
Dan's look of concern. "Oh not bad, just an arrow in  
the muscle of the calf, but of course he can't carry  
platters and cups while leaning on a crutch."

"I say yes for myself most readily," Dan answered,  
"but as for Beomann - " continued to the  
puzzled Breelander. "Camborn's asking us to help serve  
dinner, if you wouldn't mind?"

Beomann grinned. "I'm an innkeeper's son, remember?  
I've been serving meals to folk since I could walk."  
***

But dinner wouldn't be for several hours yet. Dan  
suggested they go see if Gilvagor had anything he  
wanted done and led the way back down three flights of  
yet another winding stair and through a door into a  
circular room, about a third the size of the throne  
room below, dominated by a big round table its top  
inlaid with an elaborate map of all the country west  
of the Misty mountains, bounded by a great bay in the  
far north, and a river in the south.(2) High backed  
chairs, carved and painted with the oak and sun, lined  
the curving walls beneath colorful banners emblazoned  
with all kinds of devices; not just the usual stars  
and trees and ships and suns and moons, but flowers,  
strange beasts, swords, axes and other weapons.  
Sunlight streamed in through high windows embelished  
with colored glass. Beomann would have liked to linger  
a bit and get a good look at that map but Dan circled  
briskly around the table to knock on a door in the far  
wall, then open it.

This was a much smaller room, about the size of one  
of the Pony's private parlors, its red stone walls  
hung with big parchment maps and its floor covered by  
a gigantic wolfskin rug. A writing table faced the  
door with Belegon sitting in the thronelike chair  
behind it, another oak and sun banner showing over his  
shoulder. Gil sat in a second chair on the other side  
of the table.

"Come in Beomann." he said. "Danilos, you will find  
the Dunadan's messenger in the west solar, bring him  
to us if you please."

Dan nodded and went out again. Beomann came further  
in, paused to look at the maps on the wall. They  
seemed to be of the Wilds south of the road, all  
dotted with little houses and towers labelled with  
names written in strange letters. A number of them had  
been scored through by a slash of red ink.

"So, Beomann, what do you think of our manner of  
dress?" Gil asked with a teasing glint in his eye.

"I feel like I'm wearing skirts," Beomann admitted,  
"but at least there aren't any petticoats!" shrugged.  
"I'll get used to it."

"I don't doubt but you will." Gil indicated a  
sealed letter on the table. "We are writing the King  
that Norbury and Sudbury may be rebuilt, but  
Wutherington is beyond salvaging. You agree?"

"Oh yes, like you said there's nothing left to work  
with there." cocked his head, puzzled. "But why ask  
me?"

"Because you are the only available representative  
of the Men of Eriador, and the matter concerns your  
folk as much as ours." Gil answered. Smiled faintly.  
"I have told Aragorn you approve of the idea. Though  
your father seemed less pleased."

"Dad doesn't like things changing, but he'll be  
pleased enough when there's more business going  
through Bree." Beomann frowned. "You saw how Aunt  
Alisoun and Cousin Ban can barely keep their heads  
above water? Well if something isn't done about it we  
might be in as bad case in Bree before to long."

"It won't come to that," Belegon assured him  
quickly. "even if the cities are never rebuilt, the  
Road will be safe to travel again and trade will pick  
up."

"But I don't just want things to go back to how  
they were!" Beomann burst out with a vehemence that  
surprised him quite as much as the two Rangers. "That  
may be all Dad wants but I want more." he pointed to  
the oak and sun hanging behind Belegon's chair. "I  
want that banner to mean something again. I want our  
Kingdom back, with its cities and towns and its King  
too. I want my people to be what they once were." he  
blinked back the tears stinging his eyes, swallowed.  
"And if Strider - the King I mean - wants that too,  
I'll do everything I can to help make it come true."

"That is exactly what the King wants," Gil said  
softly, "and he will need all the help Men like you,  
who share his vision, can give him."

There was a knock at the door. Gil gestured Beomann  
to stand beside him as it opened admitting Dan and a  
Man who looked like a Ranger in height and coloring  
but wasn't one, dressed all in black with a white tree  
and seven stars on his surcoat.

Beomann wasn't quite sure just how he could be so  
certain the Man wasn't a Ranger, maybe it was the open  
shock in his face as he stared at Gil and Belegon.  
Beomann looked at them too.

Both had risen at the messenger's entrance. They  
were washed and brushed and dressed in the deep grey  
that seemed to be the favorite Ranger color when they  
were out of green leather.(3) Beomann had gotten used  
to the fact that Gil was beautiful, he'd even gotten  
used to Aranel's dazzling looks, and to Belegon's  
majestic height. You'd think a Man from the Southern  
Kingdom would be acustomed to people who were  
beautiful and people who were very, very tall - but  
maybe not.

Or maybe the messenger wasn't any more used to  
people with the kind of power Gil had shown in the  
Barrow or Belegon to the quarreling Men in the Downs  
than Beomann himself was, and like Beomann could sense  
it under the two Ranger Captain's ordinary manner,  
like a banked fire ready to burst forth at any minute.

Suddenly the Man seemed to realize he'd been  
staring, flushed a little, took three steps forward  
and bowed.

I apologize for your long wait, Asgon of Gondor,"  
Gil said, gently as if he wanted to avoid giving the  
Man any more shocks, "but I am sure my kinswoman, the  
Lady Finduilas made the delay as pleasant as  
possible."

Asgon bowed again but apparently couldn't think of  
anything to say. Beomann knew the feeling, high  
ranking Rangers seemed to do that to people.

"I am Gilvagor son of Armegil, the High King's heir  
and deputy here in the North." Gil continued. "Captain  
Belegon and I have been inspecting the sites of the  
old cities. Fornost Erain and Cardol have been sadly  
damaged by time and their citadels slighted by our  
enemies yet with sufficient labor they may be  
restored. Minas Sul however has been all but erased,  
her very foundations dug up, and would require a total  
rebuilding that is beyond our means." he picked up the  
letter and handed it to Beomann, who looked at it  
blankly for a moment then realized he was supposed to  
give it to the messenger and did so.

Now it was Belegon's turn to talk: "I would ask  
that you delay your departure till tomorrow so my  
kinsman and I may here firsthand the news of our kin  
in the south." he said with a reassuring smile such as  
one gives to nervous children. "And I will send one of  
my Men with you in the morning to guide your company  
on safe paths known to us."

Asgon finally found his voice. "Thank you, my Lord,  
you are very kind."

*****

1\. The star brooch is of course the Badge of the North  
Kingdom worn by all Rangers, (re: The Grey Company).  
The wolfskin belt with its ornate wolf head buckle is  
an award of valor for saving a companion by killing,  
or helping to kill, a great Warg.

2\. The Bay of Forochel and the River Isen, in other  
words the map covers all the lands ruled by the  
Isildurioni and their allies.

3\. In fact it's Dunedain mourning.


	18. Oaths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The good folk of Bree learn the truth about the Rangers, set in the November after the WR.

He should have known serving dinner in a castle  
would be nothing like serving customers at the Pony,  
for one thing it was a lot quieter. And there was only  
the one table set up in Lady Finduilas' sewing room,  
or solar as the Rangers called it.

She was there, and Belegon and Gilvagor, another  
Ranger Woman and two or three Men, and Asgon of Gondor  
who did most of the talking, giving them the news of  
the South as Belegon had asked.

Beomann couldn't follow it very well, too many  
people and places he'd never heard of, but it sounded  
pretty alarming what with winged demons and armies of  
Orcs and Evil Men, and important people burning  
themselves alive and all. Most disturbing of all was  
this army of ghosts, the Oathbreakers as Asgon called  
them, who'd strangly enough been on the Good side,  
crawling out of their graves to help Strider rescue  
the Southern capital.

Asgon made it sound like it was one of the early  
Kings - Isildur? - who'd turned them into ghosts, but  
surely that couldn't be right. Still, it worried  
Beomann, so when Gil drew him aside after dinner, he  
found himself bursting right out with it.

"I'm afraid it's true." Gil answered soberly. "The  
Dead Men of Dunharrow were a mountain tribe that swore  
fealty to the Kings of Gondor but broke their oath at  
the behest of the Dark Lord."

"So the King cursed them?" Beomann asked  
incredulously.

"To find no rest until their oath was finally  
fulfilled." Gil agreed.  
  
"But - but how could he *do* that? I mean dead's  
dead isn't it? How could he force their ghosts to stay  
in the world."

Gil smiled a little, not happily. "By what you  
would call magic. The Line of the Kings has Elven  
blood in it, and another strain even more powerful. We  
can do such things if we will."

Beomann stared at him. "Could you do that?"

Gil's face went very grim. "Yes."

The Bree Man swallowed. "Would you?"

Gil sighed and the grimness fell away, and he  
looked only sad and troubled. "I would like to say no,  
for you are right it was a terrible punishment. More  
cruel perhaps than even such a crime as theirs  
deserved. But who can say what foresight was upon  
Isildur when he chose it?"

"You mean he might have *known* Strider - the King  
\- would need a ghost army thousands of years later?"  
Beomann asked incredulously.

A smile flickered briefly over Gil's face.  
"Something like that. And so I cannot truthfully say I  
would never do such a thing, only that I fervently  
hope I will never have to."

Beomann shuddered agreement. Bad enough to have  
something like that done to you, worse still to have  
done it and carry it on your conscience.

"To bind yourself by oath to the Kings of the West  
is a perilous thing," Gil continued quietly, "it puts  
you in our power and that power can be terrible  
indeed. That is why I have put off asking any oath  
from you. I wanted you to see something of the life  
you would be committing yourself to before you did  
anything irrevocable."

Irrevocable, Beomann shivered. He knew the kind of  
power Gil was talking about, he'd seen it with his own  
eyes back in the Barrow on the Downs. Then he  
remembered something else. "That's how you called  
little Tom and Daisy back from whatever place they'd  
gone to, 'by the oaths of Elendil the King and Hundeth  
the Chief' my people already belong to you, to the  
Kings."

"As the Heirs of Elendil belong to you." Gilvagor  
agreed.

It was like turning a piece of cloth over and  
looking at the pattern from the right side. The House  
of the Kings had never hurt their people and never  
would. For Beomann to be afraid of Gil, magic or no,  
was as silly as him being afraid of his family or of  
his town.

He squared his shoulders. "Well I've seen and I  
haven't changed my mind."

"Very well then." Gil said, briskly businesslike.  
"Beoman son of Barliman, are you willing to swear head  
and heart and hand to the service of the King of the  
West?"

"Uh - yes, I am." There was probably a more  
ceremonial way of saying it, but Beomann didn't know  
it and Gil didn't seem to care.

"Then I accept your service in the name of King  
Elessar Telcontar." Gil put his hand on Beomann's  
head. "As the liege man binds himself to his Lord so  
is Lord bound to his liege. This oath shall stand  
in memory of the Faith of Elendil the Faithful and of  
Hundeth the Wise in the keeping of those who sit upon  
the thrones of the West and of the One above all  
thrones forever."

Whatever all that meant.

Then Gil gave him the smile that made him look no  
older than Beomann, and much more mischievious. "And  
now my new Leige, we have much work to do. Shall we  
get to it?"  
*********


End file.
